Justin Marks


On Happier Lawns, I

In the days of yore I was a parakeet and my mouth
a river The lights low to see
into other worlds Vessels completing
circuits Ancient conjurings and obscure
geometries Screens so lovely
If I have a true self it is you Blood, slow
Dimensionally agnostic and lost in the loam A gun-
powder portrait or arc that ends with smashing
into glass Skeletons scanned An imaged sky

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