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Farewell, Interior.



   The interior holds out its leathery hands.
   It wants to take me to California
   Where technicians will construct my head,
   And where the streetlights are broken yolks
   And small furry things crawl up my legs.


   I decline the offer so the interior flips a switch
   Which makes my teeth cold as though
   I am eating ice cubes in luminous fog.
   I eat the ice cubes and the city evaporates.
   Rain clouds swab my eyebrows with sleep.


   A bee lands between me and the interior
   Where a thicket has sprouted up.
   When I step inside I lose the ability to think
   But my ability to blow suddenly into a thousand pieces
   Separates me from the interior which


   Trembles like a newborn lamb.
   Poor interior, it is only a pink thing
   Puking out breast milk. It is only this
   Persuasive reflex churning in
   The darkening hole of myself.


   O Interior! My wounds are your wounds!
   I drizzle them over your outstretched canvas
   And drill holes so the light will reach us on
   The other side where a canola field
   Is waiting to wrap us in its breath.


   Dear Interior, I have no interior!
   I am a shaved head turning into a field of breath,
   This is the final birth and when the wind
   Starts spinning a circle of leaves
   An invisible man leaps out of the center.
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Author:Hoks, Nathan
Publication:Colorado Review: A Journal of Contemporary Literature
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jun 22, 2013
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