Echoes
by Jennifer k Dick
impel me toward
gnarled ironwood
spaced undertow
your voice pokes places forgotten
toward
flightless life-death
line
it’s you on the
don’t call back neon
marquises—what would it mean, shelf life,
toward a shapeless world: globules, static,
hold to glue to
keep in 3 am fluorescence
green light corner stores
together stains
toward
how I remember blaring
so the flame preserved
might still be kept alive
walk toward a voice, to a voiced
white light
nights kept unduly wide
even at ten am
awake, fall to sleep
gruel underwhorls
fingertips
prints and then backtrack
toward sound
now
this refraction mirroring
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