Straight lines like a stab
Caroline Klocksiem
The cat stalks not
the finch but her shadows
flitter across the sun
field on the floor.
Outside, the winds wild
lace through pines, oceanic
roars they translate
into. Baby blue surges
the sky around needles
exclaiming the trees
their negative space
like a gash. Shadows sew
the day shut, dead lips. Living
animals dart across
the most enormous plain: green
wing of the god
of precision, my spreading
fury at the myth of precision
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