dante has been resurrected to mean the same truths in my living room — the hellish blister

developing on tongue tip worrying me much —  a small red spoon — the sound of the screeching

cat in the alleyway i lament i ever fell for as a view made me know its name — ginger

boiled in large paper cups could’ve caused my wound – i always forget to be green

 

mosquitos buzz as my mother watches me swat — ‘why are you even still awake?’

i say to it — in the morning there are the wash sounds — the swish and smack

sounds — the frailty of the outdoor sinks — the reminder my underwear has soaked

far too long — the thought that the white mold is better than the black — and clap!

 

mother puts me down on her crimson sofa arm — screams for her not so puppy-pet —

i glance out to a photograph — questioning myself — in high school — it's far too high

up — noting forgetfulness of what walls are made of at that address — peripherally i have found

in The Life of Poetry — moving on from dante, in the next corner it is writ:

         A poem is an imaginary work, living in time, indicated in lan-

guage. It is and it expresses; it allows us to express.                    

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