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Holly Amos

There was a time I broke your eyes, but the brown wouldn’t hold shape



Too little sky color. Too much soil and too little stroll. We wanted

a place where no people were, and now the ground is above us

while we sleep. There’s no reception here, and the shows freeze in

place the way your face does every now and again. Every now.

And again. If I could quit hoarding empathy. If I weren’t born in

the land of cricket-talk burning through screens.




A silent sun came up just now somewhere I’m not



Maybe this is the only continent

I’ll ever be on. If there’s really just one

name for leaving the place


where you are, then we’re constant

time travelers, dear one.

Dear one who decided not to win


the game show to mars, & so I

was the bigger red planet.


But the head wounds itself

with the image


of a window borne to black

& dust that never settles.

What I mean is I wanted


that hurt for a second. A reason

for my present


barren landscape.

What morbid


animals we are, with our black teeth

dropping into the ground.

Let me pick this


back up: the sun

again (kaboom kaboom)

my bright distracted mouth.




While waiting to be unmade by something vast and brutal



I kept becoming. Kept sensing how much I am like the sea: agitated and symphonic and unable to come to terms with my own shapelessness. Here’s one mind for the shades of green that are missing, another for the orange that fought its way into the sky. Today my eye is bent for summer, for its rigor and its bitter sweat. For the fruit unwashed and risky. I’ve put myself in this city to see if the edge of a field can find me. To see if I am the edge of a field, teeming.

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