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by Matthew Zangen

Forward bends down
in the gravity of an echo
I escape every year,

when April falls for June
to no end, but over again
in a drown, her gasp,
our cold tide
makes sand of all faults,
moves in without asking.

I sleep in a bed now
on a blister with a birthday.

It all comes around.
I can hear it,
but it doesn't get any closer.

My ears stayed down there,
with their wanting, without me.
They won’t listen
but for an obvious confession.

Is this it?

I let them lip their writhing
and ration my memory.

It's okay to fall apart
from myself, in silence.
I heard it somewhere.

I've never held such a secret
as my own hands, open, full.
I haven't learned yet
what I am to do next:
move out, fall in,
over and over
to what end.


Posted on 04/24/2020
Copyright © 2020 Matthew Zangen

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Rob Littler on 04/25/20 at 04:04 AM

you really a music maker, film guru image seer
you really is
something special, there kid.

might cry if i could i surely would, i surely would might try if i would, if i only could, if i only could

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