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a poem to be folded into the
shape of a slipper
A grackle has no interest in the far corner of the field
to which it is
briefly pinned. Admittedly, I put it
there. Another piece of architecture
giving the elements something to act
upon. Dent in the windshield.
Creak in the door. Day lavishly without
language. A better subject
for paint, bitter subject of
presupposition. A man, rubbing together
two dimes, removes a shovelful of
dirt beneath his freshly constructed
thought. Distraction: the best way of
looking at anything. I have no interest
in a perfectly clear glass of water
on the kitchen counter, in perfection
turning the bird into an embodiment of
disturbance. Grass drying
on pavement, dieing on pavement.
Underneath opacity, it is difficult
to see. The Dictionary of Symbols
is suspiciously free of an entry for
the aforementioned grackle. Absolved
of concern, it should be observed
that a fact can’t be
corroborated by its bearing of the earth on its back.
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