"This is not my teeming fate, my rind, my rolling ellipsis or valedictory spray of myrrh. Always it's morning, afternoon or evening — the loot of hours — a magic sack grasping vacuum but heavy in the hand, and from which, together, we pull a swarm of telepathic bees, melons beached in a green bin, a lithograph of the city from its crumbling ramparts, crackled pitchers and the mouth of a cave. Perhaps this is my open weave, my phantom rialto or plume of light. We bow to each other in the mash of flicking things. We are completely surrounded."

– Aaron Shurin, from "Plume" in Citizen

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