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| The Virgins of Chicago Kristy Odelius |
work nights at "Federal Screw Products." They like welding, sweating and wearing gray aprons. "I can't feel anything," I sigh as the elevator rises. The meta-galaxy slips like a ring on my finger, a parenthesis squeezing the night in towards morning. They rest in the caliper, thinking about tree trunks, project their cool measure, summon the helicopter. The sky pales, a weird ochre. All yellow, I'm flying an octave below the shareholders. It's always the same. I remember their names. I can't see their faces, I can't read their folders. |
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