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Group Line


In the fertile month









































Group Line

 

Cold wave solutions taper down
To the center of small facts
Like the size of adult cuticle and
How scaled back to cuten a dry fish.
We are a sad steadfast people, we mostly
Keep our own devices in order meaning
Off. I mean nothing by this but do not exist
Outside of the group, the lowered
Growler bubbled over. To refill
The thought requires a patent string and
Courage. Droves of its lethargy still
Haunt us, as it is hard to
Heel a sloping cinch, and we are singed
By the fallopian crook.

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In the fertile month

 

A bulb with no center won't fill its own
Light. The energy implicit is, indeed,
Illicit. Every fullish stop employs a new
Thought. If exercising the sentiment
Begets angry tenements it becomes best
To otherly approach it. It the month.
The cover, too, broken from its mother
In whole fevered slews. Cobras of rain
Shake the long panes, but there is no angle
To their carriage. Beds with no wetness.
Their ovals removed. Even the mirror grows
Tired of blinking back. Is its face silver
Or anything else. The affront is the lack of
Answer. The lack of answer in its everything's-
Right. A basket of wood could be any old
Boy. The walls braid down to meet us.

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ANNE MARIE ROONEY is the author of Spitshine (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2012). She has won the Iowa Review Award, the Gulf Coast Poetry Prize, and the Amy Award, and been featured in the Best New Poets and Best American Poetry anthologies. Born and raised in New York City, she currently lives in New Orleans, where she is a teaching artist.


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