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Bruce Covey

Your soft breath a school, and to look for the eyes of it
The altitudinal lines of it, the railroads and bike paths of it
Through the nest of wires, casings shaven to expose
The reflective copper of it, pushing the light off schedule
& in the waiting room with a newspaper & next to
A 34-year-old blonde with a broken ankle, reading
About the storm of it, trees encased in an inch of ice
Branches crumbling—an application of whole grain cereal
Sickles and milk, your sheepish glance but sentenceless
Tapping your toes against the edge of the glass table
The restless vertex of it, a function of cigarette moistened
In turns by your lips, the inquisitive roots of it, clinking
Against the peripheries, the need to replenish after
A run on its inventory, an awaiting stick of it jittering
An awaiting bar of it, a plastic box keeping it
Distanced from its expiration date, the dirty clumsing
Of it, fumbling with transparent, tiny buttons
One at each word’s deliberate interval, the navigational
Steps to absorption, waiting for the lightbulb to crack
& plant its little seeds & grow new ones clamoring
To be the first to switch. Instead, I bought you
A succulent for it, needing only a needle’s eye
Of water each day, less even than a tuber, a canary.
The tracing of the landscape of it, suspecting
Someone’s behind your back & stealing
A paperweight, gold hurricane in the middle
Wiggling its tendrils & laying waste to the under-
Burdened, with a clock on its size & bearing
These fragile clusters, ready to pop
Their packets & bawl for frilly subliminals

Bruce Covey

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