Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...
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This is Not My City
This sleepless City collapses
continuously,
crumbles and folds
continuously,
into itself.
This is a city of sketches,
of gestures, traces, inklings—
all ghosts.
I see
flickering in my eye,
shapeless shadow figures slumped in subway cars
like sacks of potatoes.
They linger…
Blurry blots and blips half-formed,
thwarted, abject cries declaring desperately
I was here! We were here!
These little pictures projected are glue,
a stagnant, spun-cotton haze of history that glazes the City.
They are the difference between leveling and layering,
between faking and feeling.
Honest and odd of mind, I see those specs that shimmer sadly—
gloomy sparkles scattered on these pages,
settled, present, here.
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To purchase this book click HERE
for a direct email link to erbacce-sales
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This
This body
This my being
Silk-hewn projection
Pale face
On the black Lake glass
Moon blood glittering
Anxious and thick with orange
Harvest membrane drips
This slip of lavender
From the fields of Cologne
A nighttime swimming costume
Inlaid with shark teeth
For me
This my being
To scuttle worldly waterways
Plugged-in veins
That harbor passion
Tugboats, passed-on ships
I am collected
This being
This me
Captain of the key
Slender arm of lightning
Lighting up the see.
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To purchase this book click HERE
for a direct email link to erbacce-sales
Atypical Love Letters & her latest: Emergent Urgency