Ambushed Breath | Eric Baus

One led the humming another matched. Their ambushed breath was doubled. The story walked until the distant, papery sound they were made from veered. Outside it they thought, One blue word removed from the sky is what is noisy in the sky’s return, then, What is saliva? What is milk?

One formed a house from another’s mouth. Another felt the silent sky. The air overhead wore two huge hands. This was a condition of their contract with disguise. One burnt a tarp to fan another’s sparks. It hurt. One said, It hurts. This heat was the most evolved form of curing. One cursed when it hurt. Who wouldn’t?

One further unpacked another’s mouth. A sheep in a crow in an anthill. Each open animal exerted a pressure inside the air around it. That heap or that cow. Those castings. Full of pulp, they let their urns dry. They were drained. They did not know to float. One put a one below one’s name. Another dried to rescind a twin.

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