Harps can be rented
and vague like all cities
hope to be and besides,
dignity is not my priority
right now. The book on how
light behaves bedside,
weeds still sheerer
uncombed. Doled and
arranged evenly, they become
wed to the grave dances
and scrape snow, in chant
form. I hem the cove,
arrange the chalk, its
scrapped occasion, because
out in the blue, helmed
by cover and coast,
most come to an image
margined—the way we
choose our parents (that
is, eventually). Me, my
body makes a plan.
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