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Photo: Chaitanya Kane.
It was then that I had wanted to rifle up against
a colony, its artful gossip,
to be magnanimous in my report and speak it–
there are some of you here who wish me to go– or
I will not stay to see some damage given me– and either
would have sufficed, I now think, that air
could take the shape of a shape’s generosity shot
through it. Me loose, me ghost, singly
stranded half of helix, mouth flush with O, hands
with no larkspur in them anymore.
I wish it back. Afternoon like afternoon again.
Sun the color of sun. There should be
no risk in asking, one should think. What one
needs is want enough. Meanwhile, matter
of course, matter in flight, as usual, seems to hold
impossible as galaxy. I must tell you, I
cannot see a way beyond it. What gives. What
holds the comb after the hive is gone?
Michael C. Peterson is currently a George Elliston Fellow in Poetry at the University of Cincinnati. His work can be found in journals such as Blackbird, The Southern Review, The Kenyon Review, Fence, The Winter Anthology, andMemorious. He has received fellowships from the MacDowell Colony, Yaddo, The Kenyon Summer Writers’ Insititute, the Vermont Studio Center, among others.
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