033.3: Dot Devota:: DEFENESTRATIONS: The Division of Labor (III) 033

"( C o n t . ) The harp a palmtree. The liberty bell a swollen fire pit. You’ve caught the light against history."
I t ’s   T h e  S i l e n c e,
C o l o r i n g  I n  O u r  F r a c t i o n s  N o w. That the day did with you what she never intends to do to any of us. Had I been there, rough crimsons. Is it enough my body may block your demented view? Even if a demented screen only offers this much? And offers, because you do not know how to take.




( C o n t . ) My ivory’s musk lights lanterns, flickers Morse code, miscues so the ship twice sinks. We ascend—or something like—to the highest deviation. Wait out the falsehood under us, we said it all too late. Since the beginning, words missing their hero led in hoods across many moats, bodies slumped and curved. My body curves when it lets go of you. Lets you go. Ago, I turn into the beginning. Letter of my last name, become the nothing it stood for in the first place. When you strait found me. Dirt, unlike water, can be restored after it is displaced.




( C o n t . ) The harp a palmtree. The liberty bell a swollen fire pit. You’ve caught the light against history.




( C o n t . ) History exits.