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Catherine Wing



Oh scruff, your moth song’s sung.  You short cut through my frost to long odds.  Your buzz dumb luck locks onto my low moon, but your blood’s wrong.  You don’t.  You won’t do.  But pots of you, my mouth’s drunk.  Your shout shoots through my lord n’ jury.  My bound by thought, shuts off, shuts up.  You know, don’t you? You know you do not do. Your rough-knock’s count down; my crumb’s out; our hour’s up.  But you cur, you run rough shod up my old song; you don’t fuck off you hold on, you brought off, you wrung through.  Full of you, thus, would you knot my hollows?  Would you crown my bottom?  You bolt my rock.  You burn my sun.  Your south.  My soon.  Your should.  My ought.  But no, no, no, our oughts should not.



SELF-PORTRAIT Does Know Better But


I am the edge of the surf.  I am sad I am sack I am a spade and a span. Bless me! I am a rose bush gone to hip and seed.  I am danger-flammable-liquid except I am the flim-flam-man.  What I am (a yam) a sick sea weed I am a sea cucumber on a side salad gone to green.  Whisker-me away I am no-smoking, I am a sign.  A witch or a whether I am not what I say or mean—Suzanne Summers!—comfort me.  I am your outboard motor a row of oars I am I am your oars man. I am twelve or thirteen feet under. Not your lifeboat I am home to roost a rout I am out.  I am unlady’s lucky.  I am run I am punt I am ugh or muck like making its way I am lurk I am creep I am shut up your mouth I am in it deep.  But I am—help me!—a buoy in a permanent bob lost to sea.  Hover and quiver I am farther I am favor I am I am only I am over I am this is me.

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