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I leave an MTA card and a wild daisy, mutter about the metaphors
of transit, tell him how last night, with my feet dangling off the shoreline,
I watched a boat bob an emerald wave. I’m less afraid. Less of a coward
than I was a year ago. Now, I am a checklist of risk. When I speak,
the words will not stop falling and this is what I ask before
every decision or task: Am I mechanism of gratification or need?
Am I more than what I feed? Indeed, are we not all an only child
with no sibling to blame? At Ezra’s flat grave, covered in leaves,
I snap up a single shell curled on the slab. There have been no visitors
for a long while so I spray for bugs and the poisoned mist carries
over the dead. It is improper and a little funny and I say to myself,
“Stop spraying shit all over the poets.” Even this fascist one.
Above, gulls chat and the cattle stars graze the sky. And at my eyeline,
insects stumble downwards, graceless, like unpardoned angels.