Abstract
If bored in the shelter, there were buckets of water to watch. There were. Ripples that forecast fears, limbs to bandage. Or fantasies. That might be of use. Some tore the husbands’, fathers’ or brothers’ shirts. Strips of torn incongruence calling for belief. It was odd. To think of gravity underground, where names were wall-etched with candle smoke. As if ones never got out. Which exit. Whose breaths were communal.
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