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New hums in this room, new bones.

Of all the things of which you’ve never once thought, the ways in

which this child could die and this sentence might end can’t now

be said to be among them.

The color of misremembering is that of a field at evening’s edge,

a field where you weren’t born and you don’t live but somehow

have to.

Hard by the world and its at-risk trappings, its shit-handed crashes

in what can hardly be called miniature, you once went rolling

around lonelily, a hole in all you weren’t, and even walked on into

the woods and didn’t get leaves all over you.

Most impossibly close and uncontrollably quiet, your skin’s now

shadow, your insides a parliament of largely unseen meat.

You scratch a bug bite.

Its itch is knowledge doing something else’s job.

from To AnacreonFind 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.

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