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Carmen Giménez Smith

I have thirty seconds to convince you
that when I’m not home, my verve is moot,
or if I’m sleeping when you call,
sheep are grazing on yesterday’s melodrama.
Does anybody know what the burning umbrella
really meant? Forget it. Tell me what you need.
Leave me a map. Leave me your net worth for reference.
Leave me more than you ever planned.
Frankly, I’m anxious your message will be a series of blurs,
that you’ll leave the endearing part out, garble your confession:
A misstep here, a domain name there. A ventriloquism.
The phone is in the kitchen. I’ve lost my way.

Carmen Giménez Smith

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