Danielle Pafunda


Pinning gilt-edged flap to flap, prying loose the pinched tips. Execute a sticky hobble; the starch sloughs off. Here, on the black slab, always degrees colder, one mustn't drink from the puddle. One must plastic over against the drone fry fluorescence. The bloom on the slide, one's own awol cellular freak. One's own kept from one by another. The doubled dotted trim, a reminder second by fierce tick rank imposter-red second. That crystal? A sugar, a salt, an acid. And oneself hot with moon shot.