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It Buds, It Bends, It Dies in the Glare

after Kristin Hersh

Never mind math, mind

fire: underneath

and shredding, still does.

What good’s fortune meant

to do—an aperture, a slur—

fault what you turn into

upon looking in any wrong

direction. Where did you,

when did you, meager

youthface and no shirt.

Fine to be alone, to fall

in a box of light alone, to take

it with you allover, finding

certain others, therefore, gone.

Limit seen of snowsqualls,

sandstone, snails—none

your fault but find it here—

a hundred blood footprints

on the bathroom tile

and you’re never getting out.

from The Dance of No Hard FeelingsFind it in the library

Copyright © 2009 Mark Bibbins
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.

Published in Mark Bibbins Poems

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