On Happier Lawns, I, by Justin Marks


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
If you hold me in your head I will be happy    
An edible ghost    Encoded identity in a cloud
of processors    The difference you experience entirely
different    Perforated form    Sad
appendage    The heart, a stencil

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