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Derek Henderson

Water under the world:

for value we curl & wind our wounds

to speak—for our awe

we circle our areolas with fingernails

lightly forming you—woman—I—man—


From nothing curls nothing sweet,

ink just stains on paper—

legends outride, walk ahead—

a festive little prayer—gentle little claws

the car famously goes no faster

bitter about this—it is true—

my sight shifts, rams across the license plate;

blood is not in the eye, then,

but before it, richly

running, turning & resurging below the conjunctiva

& proves the humanness of eyelid—

a questing hole into which is given

a perch for the light that we allow.

With a life meant to be with roam & verge

of covering—we sleep, we slip into this

insongg. We letter along our necks:

Honest lungs let out all poverty.

Talk with words; everything else slips together.

Derek Henderson

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