Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Stephanie Heit

The Poet

horizon, upturned bottle cap

I pace between the two points closest to her
tell a story unfinished
the ending years off on a windowledge

rust, hesitant blue

the sky color tonight will be my body’s edge
fallen into shapes that won’t allow her to rise

swivel, perpendicular arms to torso, flayed spiral

I run from the parking lot
return in love with the yellow lines

she adjusts the blinds
angles the paper
ink pools in imperfect dots

reclined on sofa, poised at desk

take the position of reader
make sure your jaw is relaxed

computer, garage door, lockbox, dictionary

she grinds words in her dreams
presses palms on the windowledge in the city she speaks

I forget the manuscript
and stage directions for what happens next


she makes a new beginning

you refill the flowerpot with soil
place it too close to the edge


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