SPILT MILK: A MYTH FOR RESTLESSNESS
ii.
i. in fact, a lot of blood. a wet through sleep) into the awe of starched, but lamp. a sullen red music. and the idea instant sean mentioned itthat we should
after all, have little conscience tread-wet as a frothing mouth. they
iii. anxiety: a fistful of cotton. my mouth: a breath
eyeing. you stir and breathe, unknowing. from the back seat of the car all there was commotion of contact, the waves the undulations, the song of that sort of physics.
to you of this. insteadmy tongue thick
your unsuspecting neck; feel the pulse |
SPILT MILK: A MYTH FOR RESTLESSNESS Matt Robinson |
I find myself writing more and more about (around and into) fracture. Broken or displaced things. (I'm allergic to cats and less so to dogs, and I'm not sure if we'd hit a dog that a poem would have resulted or that (in fact, I'm almost certain of this) something nearly at all like this one would have been what developed.) Poetry, perhaps, has a lot to do with our allergenshow they shape us and our responses to, our interactions and relationships with, things. I do know this: if I ever get a dog, his name will be 'chunk.'
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