Rowing Through Fog

by Kerri Webster

selected by Carl Phillips

Hotel Quetzalcoatl

Who wouldn't love a bright god? He is a million feather I can't stop buying scarves. This with the purple this with the fringe this with the gold embroidery. I'm talking inner thigh. Under of. The way lubricants line the shelves: variously: green-of-mint or latex or smells like the resin of what tree. In a man's palm all approximate inside despite price discrepancy. Who wouldn't love a slick god? Apply generously. What desire doesn't seem as of the distance across a sea? The way skin conjoins to demigod (half bestiary) (half reliquary)

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