the ease-buckled gait— i do not miss this the incomprehensible mingling of words in flight from their language conversations overheard in the street the routine pallour of abandonment— this i do not miss. my deprivation is a verb a waking to the taste of a nail, an admission that i am always another body, not the one i have fastened to a door— that
pittance
that thread
i have left the tomorrow-famished for this: voice-weary, now-attendant, congregation of last moments.
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Poetry is Disaster | |||||
correspond | |