Blank’s destroyed, gap
buried at sea, rendition
ordered for empty space,
a lacuna waterboarded.
Syllables are excised by
X-Acto, fed into a shredder
for good measure. Then,
the sheet’s copied, cleared
for release. These chasms,
like shoots that furl along
cement’s cracks, seek sun,
hiss of the particular—
broken noses, heels rubbed
into watery blisters, razor
wire girding the horizon
like flocks of dark birds.

 

Image © Ken Brown

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