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   I have such little mercy for my own
   strong myrtle, for the walkway clawed open
   by snow. To talk about deleting

   deletes nothing, the way that to implicate
   is a wirework, dead twist of tendons
   we knot into our hands. I know

   that I couldn't stop seeing the capsule
   pulled apart upon reentry, its breath
   in strands falling afterward

   each one a beating, beating. This is partly
   my crime: claw marks in the watching,
   how much like a movie it was.

   News comes and we are fussy
   and quickening until the void calls it back.
   We wish to be overheard, make sounds

   into soggy linen, stuffed with our own
   whereas. I suppose this is how we define
   destruction: drill into our gums the outlines

   of a world gone. To begin writing,
   you must think yourself god,
   the lyrical moment when the poet calls

   herself poet. These eyes watch waste,
   are the same eyes as the writer
   of this poem, tired of beating

   just to beat. We will ourselves, we two,
   to look away, to what calls for us,
   to what will call to us in the end.
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Author:Thompson, Gale Marie
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2019
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