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Evelyn Hampton




A plant divided the room into “good” and “bad” and the room became conscious of itself.

A disease that’s bigger than the body—beauty?

I bend from you to touch the ground when grass is read. That’s how it spreads.







I ran to where the artificially inseminated elephant was against herself.

Like religion I had to pass through the elephant

To the human, a little stick

With a message attached, something lunar.


Blue hoops flew through me

An echo ran past


A thing hung its tongue from me

The tongue hung its lung from me

And heaved in a language of gas. 


The real me is the one in the monkey mask. A tree showed me that.

I slept on a small machine of grass.

The country overran dust, meaning to outlast us. 

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