CANDICE WUEHLE

is a cabinetti, a wunderkammer/ she's the thin string strung from the inner plane of the scalp and slung to the upper-order of the cordelia-cavity. Sometimes she's a fist-sized hunk of unpolished obsidian: unreflective and absorbing/ arbiter elegantiarium of light. She agrees all the time with Chelsea Minnis: "This is like is like losing your fur wrap on a pleasure cruise.../Or the sound of a music box coming from a grave...///Writing a poem is like having your own way for too long..."

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