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Carina Finn

White Witch

 

Nobody gets to write the perfection of human form,

I find you in three different stores,

wood-shopping, the sun on an afternoon, the east, a

breath sinks the day into it, hours die,

somewhere a horse is going hungry by human hand,

her lips, her nails, woods wet woods, indoors,

inside, a dark face in the dark white a, flame,

gardens, in the French style, a meal, in the late, day,

ceremony fabrics. I wash my self from the clothes I

wear, governed by nothing, no, one given breath in

the whole history of breathing, she goes,

to a house in the nowhere.

 

Cream-scented night folds into a generous morning,

my love is heartbeating photogenically on a beach,

this is the beginning of knowing the present as every

thing, haven’t we.

 

Humanely, I itch. O, prophet.

 

The absurdity of body with voice, all sustenance, all

aggressed, sustaining, none of it,

turns into a swept, doorstep, dogs being loyal, from a

close, distance.

 

I see a pest.

Hear it squeak through the cracks

in the walls of which all walls are possessed. A small

creature frightening enough

to send my countrymen sobbing into trenches without

feeling.

 

Who does not, know, the black-faced prince, of my

black, little, heart, that, broken, mirror.

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