After Amanda Deutch's "Fraudulent Ceiling", posted 26 Feb 2008.
almost borealis : perhaps that light is different
in verse written in a language she has never spoken.
birds on fire. slip on bluegreen. evergreen. chalky
suburbs half-erased the train. skin sloughing off
under the slate skyline, her past in pieces along
the trailing, open trees. sap speaks volumes to a surface,
vehicle as much shoes as bus, taxi, mule. busted
television sets and a nice chair already as forgotten
as rules of a weak game, strong mojito. the amnesiac
orange in her root systems, squared, tripled, blocks
the desired temperature change. from so attentive,
listen in, ear close, to scratch out images of the 777
crash. words rhyming in a strange tongue bask
on beachfronts, riverslicks. over fifty in love or out.
somebody took leave of her outer membrane, her
pink rushing. book stands or thoughts of couplets
like shadows crouching in corners. this is plot
as much as the next person’s eyes dilating
under the repetitive questioning of her villanelle.
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