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by B. Z. Niditch

You imagine
with a perfected eardrum,
seeing my task
in my solitude of voice,
drawing a blank on a space
of snowy white-out,
trying to recall what intention
rounded my computer’s
orbit of words,
crossing my notes
with the sound of syllables,
waiting to be scanned
and read out of existence,
hungering for cold apostrophes,
for the language burning
in my gnarled mouth,
catching eyelashes of proverbs
and a spectrum of wrangled notes
with a patch of tiny adjectives,
imprinted commas snagged in
an arrangement on a doubtful page
of vagabond labor.

Copyright © 2013 by B. Z. Niditch

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