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Conceptual Poem

I love a map for its inaccuracies,

a certain pearl for its certain pearl-ness.

I wouldn’t hurt a fly, but I’d kill one,

a way of life that keeps me asleep nights,

as if adrift in a niche of big oil.

Symmetry is more or less more

and less bunk—another hole, another

doily; the phrase “be that as it may”;

the fucking Milky Way by any other name . . .

A touch horrific is the green with which

the ground will tear the winter. I write this

as a florist muscles daisies into place.

from Time Down to MindFind more by Graham Foust at the library

Copyright © Graham Foust
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Graham Foust 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.

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