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Gipsy for ellie

There is no beautiful loom. There is no sentient stove. Comb troughs, runt-fingered & spraddle-toothed, hung over. I began this project at 37, knowing skunk suns clothed my ceiling’s patina with broken eardrum peonies, the marks fingernails made on imagined shoulderblades. There is no patient dynamo. There is no appetized generator. Pulled pits from stomach pepper the cheeks’ tissue, where belief won’t work. Today at 40 through a fog of grizzle, errant hair or the destroyed flesh of a man sucked through the jet’s turbine like tensor, like wire barbs, & spittle dried. There is no permanent fixer. There is no trusting glaze. There is no hopeful hammer. There is no recovered circuit. Do you know: that bench still sits in another sun’s weather, its figures floated away, spiders sunk back to webs’ memory, the only place we’ll ever be.