…THE IRONY WAS NOT LOST…

[response to “SAME Revolver“]

My time spent revolving. It’s news
it’s a picture of a rose that anyone can take.
I’m not raised here just asked for names.
Pointed at myself. In a striped cover where
things feel most shelved. A window-frame
a crooked stance. Stations of the railroad
a raised finger battleship blue. Decrepit trellis
of letting. Foxholes. Such a drop to the first
register. It comes with the territory. It writes
among its aiming. Looking for things under things.
A cassette-player a mode a catching latch. Grids
in declensions. The image. A drop like ice.

My time spent revolving. It’s news
it’s a picture of a rose that anyone
can take. I’m not raised in this neighborhood
just asked for names. Held notions arriving
like notated hands in a revolving space.
Felt like shocked notations. What those
sound like. A picture of a taken rose regular
like red like always. Insistence drops away.
Ice into a second register. Regular like red.
Like news. Like time set revolving in the second
hand. Pieces. Sets of neighboring shocks. When
she flips upside-down she says her name is
Alil. From where some of these regulars arrive. It’s
news but it’s a wrong direction. Lack. Regular. Lake.

[read the responses: “Trimming Hairs”, and “Her allele leaves shimmering…”]

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