Saturday, December 6, 2008

Yearbook (12.1)

The tulip petal looks convexly pink, convincingly. At the laundromat, a twelve year old boy sits down across from me and begins to read the real estate ads. I grew up doubting my ability to buy a vowel. The rainstorm has cleared up, it seems. Picture four or five cops hunched over a table reading this poem, looking for clues. Or when you said to me, “Galvanized nails.”

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