Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2014  Vol. 13  No. 1
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back TYLER MILLS

Negative Peeled Back from a Cardboard Album

For a single moment,
soldiers don’t cross
the path. My eye

inspects it: three tents
cluster the background.
Morning. Island light:

glare of water, of blind
surface, of skimming
a text. My eye

chooses three
overcoats hanging
from a wire.

They are brittle.
White shouldered.
Their path will be paper.

Wind attracts one,
turns a sleeve slightly.
Officers are sleeping

outside the frame. Outside,
the planes tick with heat.
There is a snake

bleeding out the mouth.
A hose leaking water.
Tongue to teeth, I feel

a question: slight, slighted—  end  


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