to a point

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
where are we going
to go
when this doesnt make sense

Submitted: June 01, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 01, 2013




this is very american,


going back to the street,

former decembers,

to the sooty-eyed women

strangled in the trees.

at least life

can be stripped of wives

and the thing we see in scratched, public glass

is our only self,

arranged in a starched collar.

there are numbers i might arrange to look like words

like immense, smacking, biblical tirades

skinned into old papers.

yellow gamy streaks

to break your skull and penance.

maybe christ was alright at accounting-

the death i know is a commercial, a ticker.

i hate its false quiet, the way it pretends not to touch

as you amble past.

as if i haven't bent my neck for this,

to eyeball the next decimal

or glimmering, bleach-toothed face.

and i will never go upright,

the point of asylum in being perpendicular.

my obedience to light!

those tubes and sharp shapes

puff out citrine options

some death on one hand, new safety on the other.

i am at a disadvantage then, not caring where i go.

© Copyright 2020 Caroline Michaud. All rights reserved.

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