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Between our adjacent rooms the voile twitches liminal, exposes the

perpendicular. We are entangled, she & I, the way in which

nothing really dies, woven into the same fabric of the next

dimension. Living side by side in the crooked house, beans are still

sliced on the diagonal, spilt salt flung over the left shoulder. As for

that singing, stringing in my ear at night—is it really just tinnitus?

I want to go where the sun circles continuous in the same summer

sky & time is whatever you want it to be, nothing but our photons

splitting. On those days I realise my skin is not an impenetrable

barrier, but a net with tiny holes through which even that stranger

on the street gets in. I’ve started holding my breath around anyone

I don’t want to inhale. The air in here is so thick with voice now,

the walls cannot contain us, & as the house is folding in upon itself

I can almost catch the wail of all her quantum daughters leaping

out of windows.