Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2016  Vol. 15 No. 1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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We must be coming down

for we feel the subcutaneous lace
of strychnine unstitching in fitful
intervals. Once awash in tracers—nested
parentheses—yield now to the muted
sitcom in the TV room. I reached into
the interstice between the loveseat
and La-Z-Boy to touch your hand.
You have kept me, so successfully
from mirrors, where the peaking stand
to vanish, examining illusory blemishes.
This sickness is peripheral. It dodges
the dead-on gaze like the glancing
stars. I woke from thought’s collapsing
inside my own pupil, blown, wormhole
to the soul, sorry for all I’ve said aloud.  

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