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Seeing birds flush, you fall to your knees.
You couldn't eat a hazel grouse for what
you make of it: the soft berth of your own
great reliable outcome. Configured, yourself,
out of the quiet blood of beasts, you could be
conducted on a little cord held by a child.
Suddenly, you have the mildness of a giraffe
with its discrete, unrequited interest in other animals.
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In her new book, Danish poet Olga Ravn writes with open love, pity, and compassion for her strange yet familiar creations.
Draconian individual punishment distracts from systemic change and reinforces the cruelest and most racist system of incarceration on the planet.
Our well-being depends on a better understanding of how the logic of labor has twisted our relationship with pleasure.