They're sentences in waiting, diagrams drained. Tuesday raises her hand & asks directions to the bathroom. She misses cigarettes, lessons how kissing the boy she drags into the Sadie Hawkins dance keeps her homeliest gal in all them hills. Tuesdays fenced in, clad like tea cozies as though for a parade. A
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Poem for Beachheads & Briars
Awoken by the immaculate flaw
in my bed. Quietude, hollowed
limbs through which the breeze
still moves. Despite molecules
I’ve come to intuit wavelengths,
how Made in America illustrates
that most blown, charitable days
revolve this walk swept of sand.
Smashed & believing whichever
whim as promise, routed clouds,
scenes becoming then breached.
How I wish to bear the purpose
of men carrying a ladder. Maybe
they rescue the wayfared kitten
or cart the rungs for the woods,
heaved & fetched until each stays.