by Mary Kasimor
knowing
that IT fucks with your head while simultaneously talking in the room’s
textures the ROsy rosebud is not innocent nor is the laurel. then we talked
more about it and came TO no agreement.
I
did not care for the feel of THINGS LIVING in the mind in
MY
birdHOUSE. after I fell out of a tree I was good for something
but
I didn’t know what gave me substance.
cups
of water and
hands
ON KEYs making a black chorus
let
me open the window to SEE THE unsteady paralyzing
light
of croWS.
_____________________
Mary Kasimor is a regular contributor to this blog. She also appears in AlteredScale.com issues 2 and 3, and she guest edited a poetry gallery in issue 3.
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