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| For Ira Cohen (Christmas 2001, 5:30 a.m.) Lina Ramona Vitkauskas |
My head is a vacant apostrophe. The linen of the grass, raincoats on Christmas miles across my childhood backyard fleeced on its iced belly. The undertow of Ira a flipchart of mortar sealing tablet doors, collapsing shut. I am floating up like a fetal parsnip it is almost dawn. I am a spiny comb in this glass menagerie. I wonder if Chicago will snap to middle earth into the molten squash of soil, melting organs of strict, black keys everywhere. My cream is clarified. The windows are caulked with doilies. You are more subtle than gifts, a flecked, necessary note on my breast. |
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