poetry
"I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond
all this fiddle.
reading it, however, with a perfect comtempt for it, one
discovers in it after all, a place for the geniune"
Marianne Moore [1887-1972]
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my personal pickings
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tornadoes up your windpipe - by marjorie maddox
mornings, I can see the inside of your skin
and how your words spin like tornadoes up your
windpipe
before you speak, and how your glands sweat
like the slow leak in a hose
I know where your pupils lie at the back of your skull
before your lids open
even your heart valve play consciously
and your lungs, rough like dried mud, bubble
geyserlike
inside your ribs
likewise I've seen you
counting bloodcells
sliding through my veins by the thin light
that curls through the curtains
(from 'perpendicular as you and I)