| From HOW TO WRITE A MISTAKE-IST POEM by Chris Martin... |
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XV. How the close-ups gather us, each shot swelling into eclipse against the shell How the eye of the girl is suddenly an eye of a girl, lashes collapsing on a black-cored bulb which wobbles helpless and heavy How the bedroom wall’s grain welts into arbitrary and topographic routes How the fruit flies whip and stall with youth or age or both How the toe looms and sun’s encaustic settles the penis into wrinkled threads of blue-green ore *** XXVI. Canary nothing on pulses of tone or apples left on like streetlamps Come home, this is the loveliest rhyme |
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