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Tuesday, April 4, 2017


 I’m incapable of being brief. But I wrote this first as breathe.

I’m incapable of being breathe. I read for a student-based lit

contest last night and in my chest the air clogged velvet fuzz

of life, not brief, not forever either. A dictum, as it were: I am

alive whether I want to breathe, whether brief. A family at a

neighboring table unfolds a blueprint, they keep uttering this

gorgeous accident: infinite window, infinite window. As I see it,

the infinite is as good as a hand against glass, in that it is a way

to press ourselves against time. The poems I read hurt, college

a source of agony seeds, all the bodies pinned down overdone

with vodka and the out-of-body. A plant uncurling from the

torn void. To be torn like this, it is never done tearing. Bleat

of the infinite siren, amber limbs, green diction singeing ears

a new patina ring. My body was a sac I took with me to college

always already the infinite window, torn and pushed and ready.

I write along my overdue utilities envelope The core surrounded

by a crust, I do not cut a check. Drop it unstamped into a box.

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