antenna raze my left leg is a bed nothing still breathing would ever want to rest on. from the convex bone where the limb bends, a spring swells — a quarter-wave whip incapable of seeking out sound. too fearful to remove it outright, i spare the rod to spoil the symmetry, cutting down what's alien in me until it resembles the shortened shaft of an arrow fired into my flesh, its tip still immersed in the river that runs through me. 240717 what's it to you? who go blather from