The hoard
moves above her, swarming-- rhythmic. She moves, pointing through it, waving past it.
It moves, buzzing multiplicitous terror, alarming unity-- she pulls, pushing hole, resisting this force of the swarm. It insists, encircles, forms an insect-mirror for her; she moves past it, comes to haunt it with her soma.
She pushes it, angular, forward, forces fresh reciprocation, forming corporeal street signs that all come to meet it. She allows it to engulf her, insect-fan her into fevered slumber; drunken, she pushes walls aside-together, renders wings from nought but air, allows the swarm to form new wind-- wing at each heel, she breathes its rhythm, sings electric, pounds percussive pounds of flesh. Synchronic, pound for pulsion, she-it-they-her, he-we-him.
An ocean, wave by roiling wave she laps the final him of it, flesh-foam of movement, rubs us back to skin.
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