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Joanne Hart

Assembled In Not To Notice

 

never knowing what power they are inside about

Around when I eat your filth and you. Our clean and

be you’re not. Words are like birds that fly. Skin

bitten. Out of skin. Carves out where you go

and swallows infant blooms withered

put back to vase. So as not to notice on a

trip what to where what to where.

This self pillages lives heaped of

nights’ piles days our piles nights be.

Going I am carving out the anti pile

for someone many. Of them like yours

an exaggerant ride – their bodies – how

real. Their piles are collections of scare. Then

when piles are paired. Force for them. Piles.

The floored hair. The clothes I wear. Made by

remember. As if you could spare a thought meaning

no matter. You see them roofless in your head if it

would on its own. So said why piles? Piles grate with entirely clean

ironed things. But a box is a pile with business. Why scissors could always

be put away along side. When a box is being carried by me it does not know.

 

 

 

Sole Regard

 

 

If a lament were as sorry

as sorry erupted

it would crawl around

so around as a woman tied already so

tied with flagrant threads from expert planets

that have shuffled their way secretly behind trees

all down here spoon fed a dower limp

like a drowner not drowned

hung with tense missing bodies that stopped

the leap up on a day

not in case of gravity

and birth but from the boy who can’t love

the girl who imitates it – weepless hot body

 

It would lay by – catching

a rain wet foundation

in barrels of no protection

a breakwater taken up all day

susceptible yielding to supple

the unknown feet

 

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