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CHRIS 

HOLDAWAY

A field of reasons

According to who shoots dead the dream

What distinguishes a view from one hand

Murder the only serious emotion

Atlas’ shoulders themselves part of the heavens

The weather data on house prices

Ever more unattainable

Horoscopes—

                           Forests bricked like a hard drive

My drone soared out of range

The unfathomable always held as collateral

Damage—

 

                      Our bodies simple pleas for magic

Machines—

 

                      The movement of the moment