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Poem
Conor Spangfort

There’s a lot of spinning going on inside the mind

And the doctors remedy of lying down in bed

Won’t work for us anymore. The rain is waging war

On the house, sieging its cluttered interior,

And everything reminds me of that night

And every night with you is that night.

Even clouds can turn crooked, my appetite too,

Loving to choose the secret third option

That always hovers in the willow basket upstairs

But always doing it in secret. Is this helpful?

In my experience, rarely, and I never listen much

To the body, which is either too full, or hollow,

And leaking, riddled through with bullet holes.

Yet whatever the skin is in secret, it likes wearing clothes,

Likes swapping tales out of school, exchanging

Notes in pink handwriting sitting in the ruins

Of language, a once blissful locality

Where pastors used to lay their bread

In the hands of cleanly dead before sundown.

They don’t do it anymore. Things changed.

Now it's all meat and insects.

Now it's all tough mornings, cities with no safety

Brakes, homes speaking emptily to other

Empty homes double locked and canonized

And the mind cannot allow for such instability.

It brings itself to the foreground, stepping out

From behind the cloth and the silk

Preparing itself for the sermon of our times

With equations unshakeable and hard –

The halls fill with onlookers who braid

Themselves together with colors of anticipation,

Thinking new light, exaltation awaits! But in the breath

Before speech, the rain which was raining

Continues to do so, not louder than before

Yet heard like new phenomena in fragments,

And the mind sighs: Ah. . . My nerves you see . . .

I’m not like I was. . . And loses itself in the sovereignty of snow.

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