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The return of good measure

Kate Schapira

into the scrimmage throwing off
any triumphantly patterned blanket

a milestone for cupped hands
placed in the cup of the world

defined mainly by hands
weighing, she clears, lifts swathes

pacing, runs a clever
palm across the top

unconvinced by the need to campaign
saying, “I should’ve done this a long time ago,”

consternation as she sweeps
tearing audio into new, vivid strips

where incompleteness is letting
it lie against nothing

scoops labeled “small” grow smaller
items move up or back in the queue

under a bubble of hair the secret
histories settle in blackened pools

she stirs, steps over, briskly walking
onto the sound stage a hush

expecting those stunned cemented
faces to crack in welcome

Kate Schapira

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