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I tell you: I was born
like a knife – all folded.
The rest - I learned. What
you call surface all
space - slotted with blades.
Its sense of retractable. Its edge –
imperceptible. To be whetted
on the world, that's the stone of it.
We live by prepositions
& are mineral - nothing but
what happens to -
it's the talent of smoke
in an era of shine. And if
I run a current –
and if I run
a gauntlet - and if red appears
upon it - that is
the flick
silver – and
over. My
blade.
From Issue 66/67 Staple, Spring/Summer 2007