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backdrop

knitting a tornado into field.
we told the horizon to have more shoulders.
sometimes i forget there is
a sky. airplanes aren't real.
or, at least, not anymore. instead
they are the memories of the distance
we could not bear. what can we make
to fill the empty out there?
i used to think i could walk far enough
to escape the sound of the tea pot
but now i know they blossom everywhere.
a telephone rings & no one has telephones anymore.
once, my father opened the window
& throw a handful of bottle caps
at the moon. they stuck in her face.
the moon is my face one nights
like that. a man landed on my 
& stuck a flag in my eye. this was not
a love story. though many people think love is
about laying claim & being claimed.
i want to be less landable. i want
people to circle my mountains on a map
& say, "we have to be careful
when we pass over here." i spit a storm
the color of bruises. the smell of copper.
blood of the rivers. when was the last time
you bathed in a curtain? took the light
& threaded ribbon through each dart.
a spotlight falls & becomes
just a dead bird. who wouldn't want
to be a sacrificed language?
no one but the foxes are watching.
they have a hole cut in the clothe
for going between here & the other side. 

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