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© Steven Schroeder
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I come to China for the light, gray soft through everyday fog. The fog of every war settles on this coast – power speed sound cities grow thick with it, slow to the chill consistency of honey, set. Everything moves at the sticky sweet speed of deliberate light, still time. Some days sun glows dull through clouds waiting to rain gray light that will fill low paths looking for a way to ocean they remember where these roads are. Some days it shatters into ten thousand red shards on subtle mist, scatters across a whole sky yellow to red, settles finally to earth as dust some god might spit on to make a new man to be fruitful and multiply bodies of gray light on dry land he names so the god will know how to address them.
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