Amy King No punch in the gut. No black then blue. No guessing or “pro” antlers. I look sexy in clothes. Better with someone who knows better. Armed candy tanks, this continent bleeding from the middle umbilical out. Is the horse hooves on camel backs, is the store water stuffed fat. Our floor sweats the rank rank, smells of hierarchy. Not that you’re less than top. The bottom looks up. Boil the feet, insert ivory until...