Dawn
Blood paints a world of
matte houses. A day wakes in stench,
tries door, listens for breathers.
That sound is the foghorn
or anyone’s dream being measured.
Breeze on back of legs. A comma
catches its breath. Why not hold
the horizon dotted with lights
orange and white? Why not unfold
a cautious corner? Carve the conversation
with hands of a dancer.
Sea legs, sea eyes, sea mouth.
This fingerpainted hunger will dry,
one midnight house after another.
Windows stroked grey for contrast.
Page(s) 165
magazine list
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- Pen Pusher Magazine
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- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
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- Shearsman
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- Staple
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- Thumbscrew
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- Weyfarers
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- Yellow Crane, The