"In my neck,
I hear the cornfields
continually sway then shrink,
as if trying to shrivel themselves,
degenerate further away
from normalcy. Create their own
oblivion. Interconnected with
biting my own tongue,
then shutting my own mouth."
in Juliet Cook's poem "Dripping Down", one of two new poems of hers, newly appearing in Cul-de-sac of Blood
read more here - https://www.culdesacofblood.com/juliet-cook-4
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