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lights
mark irwin
swimming the earth at dusk and prickling the distance
of the near town. in the 1 puzzle of the falls i could
feel a fine mist. driving i think of it now -- snapping those
last pieces in -- and how history makes things small. the apollo
mission and moonwalk reduced to a few stock phrases. finally
everything just seems made of words, but some call out to you.
bees prowling the lobelia's 2 falls, or that boy's arc of golden
piss. i once watched his unborn head crown and saw the prunish
face scream, reddening with seconds of air. the slick hair
smelled of roses still arriving, then his parents looked deeply
into each other's mouth for nights, days, years closing around
the swing set, bicycles and cars, the pots and pans in the kitchen,
the chipped china, glasses, the hanging spoons, and the way
the jam jars continue to gather that house's mansioning glow.
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