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Teresa Wright

tracing twaddle dot by dot, letter by letter

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dangling like an infinitive

Tolerant, I stray 
on the beam of disorder. 
Roaming, I puzzle 
the moral night, 
that I might tip-toe 
as my old-self, 
an elastic tumbler, 
sure of feet. 
Oh, but this plank, 
this trick 
I step upon, 
knows my meandering. 
In front it deposits 
a strip of dog-eared 
notices, a collective 
of podgy paper-mache 
novelties. Folded anagrams 
eagerly emerge, 
polishing a manifesto 
while boarded-up poets 
suspend solace.

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