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with my hands i make a sculpture of your voice
sometimes i tie it to pigeons sometimes i set it on fire
my face held taut with clothespins i stare at the ceiling until it moves and my mouth makes whining noises
i am standing in my grandmother’s house flushing a poem down the toilet
your postcard is in my eyes where you scribble over everything
i grab my hair i spin the broken wheel

i sing to a therapist about you
when he says your name it sounds naked and dead on a beach like an unknown creature
i title twelve dead poems ‘the poet approaches light speed’ but i never collide with a wall
now i approach light speed it all comes together i spin the broken wheel
submerged in swimming pools of i don’t realize i don’t mean i don’t intend
holding a dozen roses as they become funhouse mirrors
holding a dozen roses that look like broken pencils
gripping ten thousand roses as tightly as possible