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The Pond

You skip enough stones the pond becomes a pile of stones.


That’s the hovercraft we don’t see.

That’s the divine bannister.

 

The leaf pile morphs into a groundhog.

The groundhog into catastrophe.

 

It’s been morning all along.

 

We’re all pretending you don’t have a disorder.

Posted 08/08/16
A poem from my forthcoming book, Domestic Yoga (Sept. 2016, Groundhog Poetry Press). Originally appeared in the spring 2016 edition of Sprung Formal.
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