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Adrian Kien



SOME VIOLENCE TO KNOW YOURSELF OUT OF THE MUD

I went away as a red ribbon
around the torn-off leg of a robin.
I came back and jangled silver tinsel on the tip
of sagebrush. This pollen
that sifts out my throat looks like me,
is a plagiarized likeness.
It’s only sun warm as space is warm
only in colors: a bruise split
rendering of the poet under a hill
of tailings and trash. It’s a good title,
Drill Here, Drill Now.
It’s good to believe that you could come
back to life simply by being somewhere.
The blood, so much blood, like a plague
of jackrabbits splurting out of a well.

 

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