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Poem

This place we live is termed ‘rural’ / or ‘countryside’ by arrangement / with or of the planters of grains, / the breeders of animals for / slaughter, by conservative vote.

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not quite meandering chi luck / more like vermillion songbirds than orange / figure / maybe nine months postpartum ...

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(A fugue in words inspired by a shipwreck at Vanikoro)

 

They

should have known

the blood-red coral

would look for props –

fallen men, upturned ships

nu ...

As if / the black window / at the solitary pass / from I to this (or you or now) / could let a human mind ...

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Scene like a Banksy mural: / tiny Flower Thrower lobbing / blood and vernix onto our // chests, squirming pink- / purple skin gliding on Māmān, / alien as amniotic fluid,

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we live with myriad trees
brush boxes engulf our balconies
October skins bursting pistachio green

beneath in bark litter
Chinese boys carry lattes
crack basketballs down the middle seam

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