This is for an easy indecision, a mercy from the glare that drives into the eyes we were born with, placed on the front of the head, the calm and muscle of the hungry, watching for the watchful side-sight of prey. Out here stands the animal, muddying the cracks, looking out from ledges: A stark collection of parts. It is wanting for paper to be put together with the same seamlessness with which we know ourselves. What is it to walk through a door? Posts cast long oblong places of shade, built, in the heat, for hesitation. There are only two worlds, and we cannot remain in between.
Carolyn Guinzio Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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