A. Lynn Blumer


Somedays are shrouded,
locked in rage.

Displaced anger
better off contained.

Reflect in soundwaves,
jaw fully extended
as if to consume              its tremendous—

Somedays, it hits the gullet
floor like a wet back wrestling
the reverberation.

Find its spine—its verbiage.
It’s relentless—this echo.

Today, I can hold it still / hold it still
long enough to read its
protruding up a marked hide
& I etch a fresh line:

“It’s just you again.”

It’s just you again.

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