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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

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.