Slow Pulse

I’m hoping to never be undone,/by the whir of the fan blades/on fast moving spokes,/my eyes can’t grasp them;/I stab two fingers between them to stop them/as the warmth comes back on an April evening./What’s left, of the promise to escape?/I take it back,/I croak while I eat,/(a lot, then a little,/just enough to make you/ show me wide open spaces,/smoke signals in clouds./I murmur notes outside, of love songs,/shaping a posture, big boned, /in a flowered gown/ aligned with the mirror.

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