Best of 1874 Poetry like

A box 

For Karl.

There’s a square box in my chest. With Something in it. (Life’s elastic, now I’m sure). Your hands. Their hands. My hands. Love 

Flows from the space and it’s blue. I liked to be in all the rooms of my house then. In that box 

Only you, me and the box know. It’s a room arranged in a certain way. My Inside steadies with hands and stands on Legs there. Dark tall boxes adorn and I can’t see the shorter ones across. It’s too 

Crowded. The room’s too small. (Maybe I Don’t fit there anymore.) But you’re still There. I 

Can’t think of you alive anymore when I’m in the closet and the bathroom. You were the taker of the blind white And

my twisted scenes. I’m saving them here in this box, this incongruous part of us in case some day I might find the other 

Pieces and make it all fit. 


I write abecedarian sequences

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