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Armand Hemsley

 

A thick, strangling air grasps

at the edges of my

flesh, cold and hot to the touch

 

plaster peels with a precarious

delicacy, carving a swirl

of white and orange

 

a soft crunch with every step

as the greened beams

crumble and splinter

 

sharp cracks of

glass frames and

forgotten pictures

 

brass handles pocked with

brown rust screech a

piercing song