the silences (draft)

Now, the silence of fingers through hair, of imperfect

engines. Paper gone pink at the edges, and the whiskey-



throated woman finished singing. The silence of fifth grade

valentines crumpling in desks. Of mouths pressed to palms



inside sleeping bags, or the blue insects gliding the oil-stained

driveway. Now, the yolk in the hand, bloody, the math



problem involving bones and sticks, where I name

myself geometry. The silence that halves, then halves again
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