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Jessica Fjeld

Value Finder

 

 

I like to see a decibel level that varies,

that auto-corrects. I want to fall in love

 

with the same man’s different haircuts.

I count back through the decades

 

until there are none left. I’ll take you

in hand, disorganized years.

 

If I have a doubt, it isn’t in my voice.

I’ve blurred

 

the green-checked pattern

so as not to raise the tide. I speak too soon,

 

and too certainly, but I do not want

to lose you. There are just so many

 

degrees of warmth in these shades,

and I’m lost, a little.

 

I’m lots of colors. I’m not sure what they are.

Things get made as a matter of

 

on or off positions. This is not

an upper respiratory issue: it’s happiness,

 

or comfort. It’s the way we live

with animals. I want to proceed,

 

wasp-waisted. I don’t want to keep

the rinds of fruit: I want the fruit

 

that’s still to grow. During open season

the orchard gets thick. The playbook’s

 

pages are swollen with rain.

The field next door turns out to be

 

a baseball diamond. With this stick,

one good thwack folds the ball in half.



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