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Courtney King Kampa

Self-Portrait Without Foxes

 

For now, it’s the non-permission of a window at night,

not offered, and also not refused—

  what it brings to the red edges

of that hour when, out the glass, not the lightning,

                                                                     not the fact of it (sudden silver spine

against the sky like the curved vertebrae of couples

                                    who love to be romantic in public),

            but the story it squanders its split second of backbone

to tell: the field outside, as quick

                                                                   and heaven-shot as the rust-painted life

of some saint—where the foxes have grown thin on their diet

of flowers, and there are no foxes.

 

 

Wax Wings

 

Suspecting, even then, that the tent  

his bones made—pitched

              above me—was mostly

                just  that. Quick-stitched distance. The visible seams

of a body my own seemed anxious to mistake

    for love—for want,

              as if the craving for shadow. A canvassed stretch of human

to hide beneath. Suspecting, even now, the sun

       as some vision of god: with  no end

                                                                                           to its being alone.

 

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