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                      March 27, 2017 | 
                      in Poetry | 
                      admininfin8 | 
                      0                      
                
            He’s inside the clock in the airport. Only the hour hand is painted in. The man dips his brush in the paint can and traces a long black line, uniting the center of the clock with the...
             
            
                     
   				                                              		
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                      January 16, 2017 | 
                      in Poetry | 
                      admininfin8 | 
                      0                      
                
            In the courtyard of a temple where an ancient tree blooms an old woman is waiting to greet you. She locks her fingers. You step into her hands. Lengthen your body. Your feet on her...
             
            
                     
   				                                              		
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                      January 16, 2017 | 
                      in Poetry | 
                      admininfin8 | 
                      0                      
                
            If Life Is As Short As Our Ancestors Insist It Is, Why Isn’t Everything I Want Already At My Feet if I make it to heaven, I will ask for all of the small pleasures I could have had on...
             
            
                     
   				                                              		
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                      January 16, 2017 | 
                      in Poetry | 
                      admininfin8 | 
                      0                      
                
            Virtually, every Sunday, we gather just the three of us: me, my sister, the upper-right quadrant of our mother’s face. It’s nearly impossible to take a disembodied forehead, seriously,...
             
            
                     
   				                                              		
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                      January 10, 2017 | 
                      in Poetry | 
                      admininfin8 | 
                      0                      
                
            You ask me why I did not pin a star beside this city or that, & my maps are gathered in graphite & not ink.   Perhaps I did, & did not care to rebuild that city just yet...
             
            
                     
   				                                              		
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                      January 9, 2017 | 
                      in Poetry | 
                      admininfin8 | 
                      0                      
                
            She mourns the soft, upturned earth of her own body; the failed harvest hangs in her stomach like a sickness, the grave of the Unknown Soldier hidden under her own skin, her skin a thin...
             
            
                     
   				                                              		
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                      October 25, 2016 | 
                      in Poetry | 
                      admininfin8 | 
                      0                      
                
            In the presence of heat, the air palpable as breath, in there   the heart races, the thing is waiting, a kind of skin trembling   waiting for something to come on me, a thing that...
             
            
                     
   				                                              		
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                      October 24, 2016 | 
                      in Poetry | 
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                      0                      
                
            She was mid-sentence. Mid-bloom. Her youngest voice emerged—a mustard seed shoved deep in her throat—when the arrow shot straight through her eye. The audience finally heard her. Our...
             
            
                     
   				                                              		
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                      October 23, 2016 | 
                      in Poetry | 
                      admininfin8 | 
                      0                      
                
            After unpinning me from the wall, head, heart, knees, feet, The left behind nail holes make a constellation of me. Under whose sky I walk out. Buzzards with their cogged wing tips gear...
             
            
                     
   				                                              		
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                      October 1, 2016 | 
                      in Poetry | 
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            baby / if you were to     shoot / and I left behind me a     392-foot-long trail of blood / a wedding     train / a slug’s...
             
            
                     
   				                                              		
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                      September 12, 2016 | 
                      in Poetry | 
                      admininfin8 | 
                      0                      
                
            on a beach in france a veiled woman is         in keeping with the law   stripped      & expected to say thank you for freeing me         the photograph  ...
             
            
                     
   				                                              		
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                      August 15, 2016 | 
                      in Poetry | 
                      admininfin8 | 
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            tired now, of the passage of nightmares and the weight each breach bears upon my chest each morning, a new emptiness strains its voice to plead the worth of its blood, to the earth the only...
             
            
                     
   				                                              		
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                      August 14, 2016 | 
                      in Poetry | 
                      admininfin8 | 
                      0                      
                
            Circuits––                      you wait for hours while the planets move...
             
            
                     
   				                                              		
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                      August 13, 2016 | 
                      in Poetry | 
                      admininfin8 | 
                      0                      
                
            So. Here’s this photo Of a 2 million-year-old Jawbone with a few toothy Molars clinging to it. Our common ancestor. It looks like something ashy Pulled out of the fireplace. I remember...
             
            
                     
   				                                              		
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                      August 12, 2016 | 
                      in Poetry | 
                      admininfin8 | 
                      0                      
                
            Unscrew a box of white gold: smell the money and sing money   while trained women who majored in “Classics” stride pencil skirted across a   crystal sparkle dance floor. No...