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Francis Raven

Taking the line for a flip, not a walk.
Standing on the bough of hope in deep frost.
Holding stolen napkins to your face.
Faking your smile into the resemblance of a famous painting.
Waiting at the airport for four hours while your destination houses blizzards.
Smiling your backward, backyard, barbeque best.
Angling towards an open shape.
Crying upon already wet, rotting oak leaves.
Leaving on a slow bus, not a jet plane.
Tying your names together so that you fall flat and ready for form.
Sitting with the pin of an election pin in your ass-cheek.
Borrowing distinctions from a history forest.
Timing the receipt of unexpected news.
Walking miles to find a pulse worth the calories of a candybar.
Falling poetic, or, already fallen.
Making faces at a puppet which you thought was a shadow.
Milking the arrows.
Building fences in Tennessee.
Driving until the songs on the radio match the ones you would like to hear.
Struggling with the endless directions of the metaphor.
Creating distinctions out of plain.
Flying through the breasts of Artemis.
Letting your mother read your first novel.
Holding the angels of fragments simultaneously in painted palms.
Cruising far amongst penguins in Antartica.
Teaching an alternate history of structures and resistance.
Stopping at each scheduled station.
Shaking a line from its monotonous job.
Thinking your best in the medium of chance presence.
Minding your own cooperation.
Tuning the length of the line.

Francis Raven

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