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You know something wrong by its difference from
something right

Kate Schapira

In this portrait, I failed and it fit
me like a hollow twin.
In that stale apartment
I deflate.
In reduced circumstances
less and less happens.

Scissors on the table.
What do they do there?
Where is their strong word? In

a settle of disrepair. Anything caught
in creases stays there.

Having made others do it
I didn’t even invent being old.
Objects ranged at hand
from tissues to the phone

in the wrong order.
A big-lensed wait. A lax chin.
The skin fit. I nailed it up.

Kate Schapira

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