Red gash on your neck. Start over.
Red shoes against the rubbish bin you
flower out of, your roots are
ancient flowers, stems were grasses, seersucker patches
close where the garage door was hanging from a blind cave
and bats were as bat-shaped buttons, black
and white. Forgoing the inventory
thief of omission sunlight cold sheets and
the horse on your shirt, pink.
What force was working on that button?
- Claire Becker
- My full-length book, Where We Think It Should Go, can be yours via Octopus Books, Small Press Distribution, or Amazon. We better celebrate these hard copies while we can. When I'm not writing poetry, I teach amazing young people who are blind. I believe in a healthier future.