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Nerve Saint You

Joe Hall

Rendering petals, rendering not the sun
But coronas on an imaginary lens, rendering
Wind, the I wants and I’m weaks, the I did
File the hill into a screw and tree
Into a swan’s neck, magnitude of
It was raining hard, I laid down by the window, I felt such
Sweetness, maybe it was on the blog—What weight
Crushes and deranges—Knowing
This pleasure will end then, my hands
Asleep way after I woke, into the day: a prayer
A specific weight—it was a party
Everyone was there, like the moon
Like the appearance of dwindling
Like it all started in a mine shaft
This pleasure—This deer print
In the spillway’s frozen mud
This interval, the moment you pass
Through a sieve
One arm sunk into weakness
We grip, as if both slipping
And work our bodies into
Each other, as if both
Slipping, this flood takes soil
Makes naked the slope

Joe Hall

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