Locked in the beauty of the pearl, far from frail,
these people who claim to love us still
they don’t give up much, do they, sealed? To eradicate class—
the looking glass of it, the complex glare: “Let me introduce
xxx, impoverished poet.” Winter let up
like a terrible
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I’m a witch who lost all her powers, then
in place of my powers, I got the coiled beauty
of seashells and sleeping infants. The coiled
beauty of eardrums, and the sound wave
of bells. The bells! This is the country of clouds.
The molten body, the Floridian pinks,
and centuries of sand dollars examining
the arcing waves. New territory
of interiority and I’m in the middle of this.
White like a negative belt.
I am an airless thing. When I get high, I get low.
But I’m real and airless and love you.