2
I came here wanting, I left
at the back of a mouth.
Tonsil: Sometimes leaving
the opera is the opera. Adjacent
tonsil: My dear friends, they write
the best American poetry
in the entire world. Inner ear:
Forever north of so
much, a hive of oddly
shaped birds, bipedal, perambulating
the ghost-walks. Call to a ghost, say
Here Ghost, but my friends they
speak only to colossal
ghosts. My friends say, Here
Hemisphere, here. It is always that
way with them: one on
their shoulder, yet voices
thrown in unruly yarns across
the continents. Ventricle: One’s
life is as simple as
an arrow. Pointer finger: an arrow
of failure that does not pause.
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