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Ground in what flows through

Cheryl Pallant

Go then, you with I where seeds breaks surface and fertile mounds reveal source.
Let the tongue split the one who sewed against. Serpents fire loins without raising
the rent. Footnotes may startle. The endnote may not appease. What’s in the margin
marginalizes the unerasable smear on whose reputation precedes them and anticipates
flings washable with a good shower and later showing a better cheek or both
simultaneously, both in the line of fire.

Glow then, you with I. If neither of us can say, the silence betrays a more unspeakable
harm. East winds, arms tied, untry and misconstruct, raise the dirt and lower the sun.
Bring what’s leaving with what remains of the day and char not supplicants to the
utterance, the cleared throat, the cough that supposes phlegm meets soft remembrance.

Hands anchor the sky in elephantine minutiae. Without the jungle, no rain. Without rain,
no remedy for the ailing whose surfaces leak and surrounds a mutinous source. Let the
tongue lather wet. Let the mouth open elided. If silence is sought, seek its center, ripe
beyond perishable, and ache beyond blossom.

Cheryl Pallant

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