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Jen Currin

In stilted a cappella I sing to handsome thugs:
Make me a constellation with scissors and black paper.
The garden has no gender
but the speakers on ladders look female.
We search the house for tea, black pepper, lemon.
These keys are stubborn
statements in frost. The rooms pleasured.
Through real and fake fires
like clean characters we stroll.
Around the corner all things human.
The terrace       the sea.
But there are differences in our childhoods.
What you laugh at will make me cry.
In the graduate greenhouses
I imagine you a crow.
Your horse       your escape.
I approve but why bother.
You want to visit the ghost
you can.

Jen Currin

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