TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Mounded leaves lie under frayed horse chestnuts, where the caws of great black birds hover as they bicker and scatter. For a moment, I see decayed bodies in decaying clothes the color of dried blood and yellow hair. Vapor trails after distracted students, suggest clouds, and more clouds, incipient rain, sleeping swans.
Then a lone magpie ventures onto the lawn. To ward off bad luck, I salute this handsome bird, just as it flees into the brush. The world is hard enough, without enchantments of one's own.