i'm thinking, now, that i could've stayed back and never learned how to exist.
or, maybe, there's still scope for that. an earnest bite of flared fishhook, two of those 45 degree mirrors that let submarines see all the way up to the surface.
whatever you do, don't imagine a white fenced-in yard with a swing-set and bruised knees and lemonade. whatever you do, don't be shaped by the people who brought you up.
imagine it with all sincerity in your inner monologue. imagine: a frail row of toothpicks across the maw and you are seven years old once more.
who knows? we are barely subatomic in the scheme of things.
Poetry is my cheap means of transportation. By the end of the poem the reader should be in a different place from where he started. I would like him to be slightly disoriented at the end, like I drove him outside of town at night and dropped him off in a cornfield. — Billy Collins
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