By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

There doesn’t seem to be a sudden red announcement of anything, this single red shirt hung from a pine tree on one of my many walks that could end up anywhere this side of warring night goggle asymmetry and sliming my strapped way back down to Axmith Drive I christen distressed jean slugs come out of shell, reverse Dante out of Hell from those many paved drives back up on Richardson that would rather see the world fold in on itself like amateur origami before whale blubber lipstick from the tube ever dries to the side of a face worth kissing.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez, and Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
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