A loaf of dropped bread at the party.
Upstairs, Peter speaks unkindly, painting a flat blueish landscape with just his tongue and the back of his hand, long stretches of blue.
Killing the engine, an undefined shape, muddy edges.
Now floating silent on the water.
Peter covered my head in a quilt and hid me behind his oven, don’t peek he said.
My saxophone has a dog sleeping inside her neck—when I play it, she sticks her head out and wails.
Now, silent on the water.
On the surface I seem to answer a bird in its own tongue and it seems to answer me in mine. 
Echoes make a perfect shape against a wall, like a sconce.
My wrists crossed, the trees chopped and dropping through the river with no sound.
Now my hair pulled up through the intake valve, pinning my slow head against its chest, drifting. Whirring like a cat, river goes dark.
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