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The Flood of Mathis After you were scratched by a statue on the edge of your lip, the doctor found some plywood and numbered the walls with a blowtorch each time you left for the bathroom or to get a glass of water. Your legs would lay against the cot as though your feet were the end of time & you giggled when the curtains caught. I sketched our phone call on the mattress in case the city was stormed and it took the breath of your puma to fog the lights of the hovercraft. Either way the place is flooded. The waves wash up to hear you chant the moon mantra as your legs turn black under the featherbed. In the morning we're another percent fiction cuz I'll have gone with the pasture girls where the carpet ripples like a pelican's jowl and I know the next 20 nites of sleep are covered in a mattress of water.
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