body, will not deceive me—engrossed in these green river weeds—muddy eyelashes and steam curling around the thighs. If no black silt fills the air-pockets where the blue ceramics drown the earth will not wheeze for your porpoise movements will not sway the unseen, day that resolves around the wrinkled red hoax sun. Opened the heat hour with a flushed cheek through that doorway: oiled the hinges of disrepair, removed flesh with a cloth of turpentine then stuffed it in the mouth as good as Art History, quicksilver corpse, la luna, downriver jazz pine dizzying jackrabbits planet an everlasting nocturne Broke through this sturdy levy with papa’s dementia colored glass sprayed across my obsessive photographs of hands with each obstacle, there was an old saying “when the river dries, the geyser” over each plateau a cactus needle pathway where salt days— unresponsive to reality like someone dunking a dead man’s foot in a bucket of rainbow bubbles— wherein we meet again. Old lover. Transformed by the criss- cross rain. Face the consistency of clam meat.
Sandra Simonds Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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