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Michelle Detorie

I am tired of the dictionary. Of what
it doesn't say. Outside a fog horn
moans and so I imagine fog and in
the dark I imagine snow and then
it is white inside where wind winds
over and over again. I'd look
for the moon but the moon won't
send light through these walls
and if I cry it won't tell me when
the dark marks mark. Even so
the idea of even-ing quivers
me; I don't know how. There is
looking for outsides, for twin
rivers:for it to work she has
to look like a girl. Tides
fix a rock, an end. The work
continues with our words or not.

Michelle Detorie

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