Photo: Tolu Bamwo c/o nappy.co In the end, I let the judges of dust implicate the boat tailed Grackles, A highway coded up their long black tails; they did not matter to us. They were paper maché or a floating recess paper plane. He said, it was acceptable to hurt me. That grace will save us. That the tops of brownstones Are a repentance, like my blood. Myself, I never loved the world. The world was crystal-encrusted like New Hampshire in November. For your sins, father, mustachioed, you heaved sighs under shades of privilege. Today and tonight the marsh leveled peepers and balloon-jowl toads, were at your doorstop, like fairies. Somewhere out in the dark distance, boat tailed grackles gave in-human riffs. All that was mundane was marshaled in and became unfamiliar.
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August 2019
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