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     by night:

you are the nondescript
feeling between the grooves of the air
and my body,
the moon swelling in my stomach
and I have wings.

I try to write you
and you gather bones
just to crumble again,
the backsides of letters
and straight line reality
of form and material--
withering in a strand of syntax.


     by morning:

you are the sun again
running your fingers across my bedpost,
the back of a chair--
as if tracing the contours of a place
you half remember.
You have knotted me with joints,
with memories,
inferior eyes,
I too crumble.
Still a work in progress.

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Submitted on
December 2, 2012
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