Prometheus PosingScott Glassman
I snap back as though bound to a long tendon. Nearer to you somehow. I wade through the listening ivy, leaves stopping the sun, holding it out: SEE In a drawing I once made after falling sleep, in collusion with it, my lips (?) just about meet the soil. I am grateful for the fine Caesarian roots brushing past my thighs. Murals are thirst-bare, clamoring as gorgonia fans. The pasteurella sea and something else above ground, crammed together at eye-level, crab grass, brass chains. A mouth maybe. I act as though I want to say SORRY into the pocket of your Adam’s apple. Oxygen is pathological as an afternoon at the races, subway doors opening under Market. I contain a soil three stories deep. I AM CLOSED FOR THE EVENING TRY BACK AGAIN LATER Field of yellow vectors, one leaf, one field over each eye, medicinal, scented of thyme and lavender. I am nearer to knowing how he fought back his tears.
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