Breadcrumb #638

LESLIE EDWARDS

I've never had a sufficient fear of roofs.

Stitches in potent space. 
      Bad lighting, bad future. 
Start a candle for Santa Barbara or to miraculous mother, 
untier of knots. Place it in the kitchen sink.

Remember, I'm ruining my books 
     without meaning to. 
Hieroglyph men in the margins pantomime 
falling backward to earth.

Interstitial light through tight spaces 
     where leaves intersect make furtive crescents on sidewalks, 
arms. Mixed cologne samples arrive at the exact 
scent of an elevator's unadorned brass.

A performative dimming out.
     Running down my heels.
First generation capacity 
to cabin in the reasonable light.

There's a certain beyond which factor, 
     an algorithm 
straddling the year. 
Recitals.

You have your work cut out for you. 
    To know something so well, you don't even look.
A ghost yelling without vigor in a dining room of flushed, 
half-formed faces. Graphic anecdotes.

Flinty shadows in the comments section.
Burn within sight.

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