voices that now and later and may be

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 15, 2018

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Submitted: September 15, 2018



Cutting clean, a paper’s edge

Much ado about the belly

Sometimes resounding in

My chest, a kettledrum

Maybe only to myself.

Smooth as stone and pocked

The same way with whistle-holes

Bright yellow duckling-feathers

Wet from the egg

Grooves deep and black

Cold but warm when touched.


A voice that sweeps

Full and round like the moon

On a cloudless, starry night.

Overly romantic, maybe

I could settle for purple fairy dust

Like they sell at costume shops

But where would I get the fire

Sparks to dazzle behind silk curtains?

My mind sees pillars of marble

Tall and imposing, these mammoths

Of architectural grandeur.  Eero would weep.


And even when time and wind inevitably wear the polish and dull the whites to gray

The edges never really go away.

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