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Let’s face it: I’ve taken liberties. Be they bodies up from being sunk, be they bubbles uttered out the mouth. This history hasn’t happened yet. All is as was before: my head is crawling with lice-like have and to be words. So here:...

Let’s face it: I’ve taken liberties. Be they bodies 

up from being sunk, be they bubbles uttered out the mouth. 

This history hasn’t happened yet. All is 

as was before: my head 

is crawling with lice-like have and to be words.

 

So here: having to be!

Trivial-ectomist to this tree, solving

small problems, cutting

dead buds, clenching my chemical jaw. 

Inside, my friend prepares 

a mackerel for dinner 

 

while I myself will (by myself, beside myself)  

still be sitting

beside this tree, on the hung swing, where there’s always another thing

to cut 

or refrain from.

 

Kary Wayson’s poems have appeared in Crazyhorse, Poetry Northwest, Filter, The Nation, The Best American Poetry 2007, and the 2010 Pushcart Prize anthology, among others. She lives and works in Seattle.

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