18

a three-legged chair

 

is an empty womb     weighing
a black hole in the ultrasound

is held in hands     the heft of wood
turned smooth and lacquered

is suppressed in silence     twisted
and splintered

is voiced on tremulous days
obvious     without glue
without
sandpaper

 

 

contemporary american voices — april 2010
prose posies — april poet showcase 2012
 

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