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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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