yerr breath is filled with something
as when
which is breathless
between teeth and b's
o that other pressing place
when
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as when a sonnet snare it track
fumble over the high ground of its pentameter
or corseted crossing the rhetoric of its accident
you've sent the face this amber shell
carrying back its smitten fare
when it worked around the couplet
hankering a couple's lovered body
clacked by the Sunday coup-de-grace
pause its turn to legitimize grace of your hair
yer handing this finger clandestine
Sunday and moon clocks over
gathered in your sneaky feet
not necessary to you swill porches round-abouts
and card moochers
this is not night
a sonnet bearing down like a geese
out of shadow
a permanent toss between every expected page
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