(Laura Sims)
His face
Shone
At dusk
So odd
Yet
So pleasing
A stone—
Then
His skull
Was inhabited
Lightly
Such colors
Were called
To my tiny
Own
Head
Was at ease.
I was more
Than what
Kept me
Myself
In the dread
Fourth World
A hundred parts of
You
Inside
The Gold Apartment
You
Lock the door
A piece
Of wire in hand
You like
Your habits then
You dream
Of marching
Up the hill
And down
Again and
Fingers pointing
Now
A hundred parts of
You
One
A lily
One
A rose
And so on
Who Malingers
Cannot go on
*
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