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by Brynn Dizack

each thing is many things.

i, in blue and marigold. 

i, in vain. 


in the kitchen 

watching you turn
the act of slicing onions
into something extraordinary.

each day is many days.

put your hands on me, and

you will pass through. i am water, i am salt, i am 

fog. this is how time will move in our house.

each name is many names.

you are sugar, and wild, and lovely.

you are hybrid apples
brooding in a bowl, undecidedly green or 


i think that even sweet things cannot taste air 

or breathe light.

but you;
in you, there is the exhale and palate of the earliest morning,
deep in the forest,
silent, but eupnoeic;;
the way fog moves across the lake.

and when i look up at you, supine and sleep-lidded,
in the first and lowest bass-notes of morning,
awake only because i cannot bear to be parted from you
by sleep.


Author's Note: entre los labios y la voz, algo se va muriendo // algo con alas de pájaro, algo de angustia y de olvido // así como las redes no retienen el agua. oh, oh,,

Posted on 05/03/2012
Copyright © 2022 Brynn Dizack

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Rob Littler on 04/21/17 at 07:47 PM

this lulls like the best lovers rapture I have memory to feel or want to make awash over the comfort of our universal cliche for ecstasy.

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