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Sunday, April 16, 2017

15 [on 16]


Miscues ticking like a kettle 
she
feels the rough weight
of her eyes in her head 
as they loosen & roll
like bumped planets
amid frank stars
She
reluctantly parts 
with the intention she’d
spent all day preparing
She
knows there will be
no poem today    No yellow year
or yellow house to wander through
No tender gear to sort in piles
upon the rug    Nothing 
with which to fumigate
the colloquial 
ghosts


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