The MimeIvy Kleinbart
Something remarkably thin about the vault you surprise yourself in. Blind hands borrow along boundaries of a mute universe checking the rope, the wall, the window— What ions are your hope motes mingling? A basket of imaginary apples? A theoretical rocking chair by the hypothetical fire? What’s wrong? Don’t you want to say what’s wrong? (Eye diamonds smeared. Body unbuttoned at every joint.) Are you a paper doll? Is your country sick? Did you split your fist on the public mirror? Did the last sung light turn your blood out? Lend us some counterfeit tears— can you fill the bag? Having fashioned a room from sky to fix the ordinary; can you hold the pose?
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