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Destruction of the bower of bliss

Kate Schapira

Infrequent, unfragrant sighs
scathe and raze the fresh air,
cozy up to the interfering bank.

Cue the old-lady choir
sisterhood of teamsters
double-headed horses

pulling the flesh self against itself
where impatience breeds and lives
—down it already!—
like larva in a bucket of
gentle confidence in the future.

Fear strikes into my heart-case
like a tall stair.
That old bitter twist. Keep it. Keep it.

Wheezing old-lady underside
taking the green boughs down.
The welcome mat.

Kate Schapira

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