t h e o d o r e w o r o z b y t |
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Easily Repaired |
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I'd said, The portrait peers differently now, behind this invisible green. Maybe, in some god-wet summer, meadowood sleeps would smell of their salt and coconut oils. I rode a roan horse along the city streets, to a church where there shouldn't have been many children. I wish I could remember to unpack only our truly valuable specimens, tourmalines, peridots, the blood of pigeons, crystalled basalts towering like black teeth, peppercorns in my molar that iron rust. This shard I pluck from the loam was used to cut a slipknot. It's not only this glass that is fresh or new, yet I am seeing through its window toward a silver river where there long ago had been hung no portrait, no sash, no door, no dog. Mammals, in the aftermath, hive now. Bees land on the rooftop and spread themselves like gold wingles across the shingles. Not many return. A precise set of sinks bleeds slightly but obviously. Let's see the other one, I thought again. |
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THEODORE WOROZBYT's most recent book is Smaller Than Death, from Knut House Press. His work is forthcoming in Po&sie. in issue three |
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a l i c e b l u e t w e n t y - s e v e n I S S N 1 5 5 9 - 6 5 6 7 |