We held the sculpture like an army holds a castle under siege. I have just caught a moth under a demitasse on the table. Lipsticked and heeled we ticked away from the crowd through its rusted arcs, part canyon, part propeller, a bit swoony inside its weight, height running hands (out of sight of the guards) over the surface the one on the patio stays warm for hours—you can feel the heat just radiating off and arrived at the spiral's center, torqued off plumb, big, bright, open to the ceiling. they built a moving wall into the museum so it could be hauled in by crane While we were there, no one would enter the space— peeking into the steel clearing then turning to slip back through its darker corridors—and we fluttery with wine felt so powerful: conquerors. The moth doesn't feel this way. Though the cup is translucent probably glowing like the inside of an egg, I can hear the whisper of her panic against the clay when I slip a card under to carry her to the door, I will feel it and when she's gone, the brown powder of her alarm will coat the cup like a glaze.
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