poet

Christine Hume

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by this poet

poem
I'm not right. I'm interfered with
and bent as light. I tried to use the spots,
for months I tried with rings. 
Only now I'm thinking in cracks
that keep a modern light
lunged. I keep the porch light on
to burn you off in ghosted purls,
the licks of which filament me.
My Day-Glo tongue's cutthroat.
Though I'm