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by Jessica Harman



The problems of opening, of letting in
air, light, letting the door creak ajar, cooling
the tambourine-brights of the air as breezes

allow newness in. And the erratic unknown
of my heart keeps working, unfreezing time,
pumping its V-shapes, its birds, its migrating

starlings. I am escaping nothing, building
on the old, those brick flagstones, those austere
skylines that remain always unfinished by history

and dawn's yellow itself vanishing into the shadow
of blue. I am just a small interpretation of this dark,
this water, this thirst in the midst of salt. I am a handful

of sand, asking for fire, that luminescence of murmuring.
I am simple, and like all simplicity, I am incredibly
complex, the way new belongs to its newness, shinny??

as sap, bleached bark, a happy voice, an inflection
in a dead language. I am becoming everything subtracting
itself from Venus, from everything, from the cities

of the Pleiades, from the world turning itself
into a shortcoming of turning, a slip of a loose
tongue, a connotation of roses in light.


Copyright 2008 by Jessica Harman

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