by Susan Lewis
1.
the elusive boat,
our fish selves
drowning,
the fictive voice of
conviction making its
claim to meaning,
our scaled doubts
pouting yes & no,
hedging &
weedily wavering.
As if I or it or you—
2.
the seductive skin,
sacred,
scared border between
anything & naught,
bleeding vapors like
any barrel,
leaking out
the angel’s share
til, lion-scaled,
the crumbled husk
drifts anyward—
3.
the deceptive polish,
fine again
as if linear logic
just this once
prevailed, as if
good, better, best
captured any history
beyond dreams or
other dissemblings—
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