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Whatever comes in that chariot
we must work to slow its progress, deconstruct
any monarch we find smuggled
in its billow. The parts are the sin of the whole.

Once the queen is fractal & defused you should gather
her intonations and see for yourself—go ahead,
count the ways they can enter a black hole
on your one good finger.

We speak to survive, recite our handwork
until the sounds build and calcify into
the collarbone’s first and final instrument.
Language will always prove fatal
to captors.

Do you remember the violent indignity of the surf
when we tried to enter the ocean the way it seemed
people do? How shame entered our ears in the foam
& we annulled our knee-gashes and never talked again?

That was on the perimeter of
A shallow sea that would soon break its lip
let glaciers slip
& scar the land’s back so deeply
that it would become the belly.

Posted 03/30/10
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