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Rachel Hyman



There is a glass box sitting

On my head & many bees

Buzzing around inside & people,

The people, are saying things

Maybe What a nice box or

Such industry and promise exhibited

By your bees but my head it is just

In this box. In the murk of it.

We form hypotheses about people

And continually test                       all of them

Inside this, our old room

I get dishwasher soap in my mouth

I hide a fig on my tongue for you.






El cielo,

he called you,

mi cielo,

as if he could tear down a new sky

each day & start you                       this                 over.

You recognize the lower pitch to mean

this is important.

O tremulous human beings,

drape yourselves in the barely real.

Somewhere you can’t pronounce,

an airplane blinks out on the radar.

You feel or hear a loud whooshing.

Time presses in & life lopes along.

Outside Chicago, my grandmother

writes letters to disappeared people.

If you declare it lucid, it will be so.

We are individuated.

We are hassled in the space between our ears.

When will meaningfulcore be popular?

The plane is still missing.

I un-embiggen inside these

gulfs of quiet.

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