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Rain falling past the curtain you can draw
your own conclusions, There is little evidence
of the bee’s contact with a blossom
but the blossom, which is nonetheless
and admittedly large and disabstracting
These children drawing numbers on the black-
board appear waving numbers at the night
As my heart, done up in humanist brick,
keeps going around, which to a record player
is music, Sunday, And longing striate and radial
And my own breath a railing, Or this woman
in dark gloves as though handless before
dark woods, Lunging pronounced lung-
ing, breathily, Dear phonographic tongue flat
on my neck, Don’t you want a little intrigue,
regret, Let me tell you pleasure gardens
as in cultivates like the men at the checker
factory calling out to the evening red black red
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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.