If you were thrown from the earth in a life not unlike afternoon,
it would be the distance between
you and your shadow, not that clean shape
dislodged from its spotlit body, but the
upset space disrupting into a body
and the music that piles up to meet the solid with its void.
This time you are not the things, not
the whales in the washbasin circling the drain, not
the seamstress plucking hairs from the cave’s walls, and not
that cool smell of the balloon massaging the ice floats, no,
you are the disease they’ve all contracted by
hatching cleanly at your feet.


1 Comment

Filed under words

One response to “Untitled

  1. this is a good poem. it deserves a good title. go.

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