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A Poem: Separated by Lines 

I tway inth I tween
I treble unsound unseen
aluminumscrape

I have something here
caught in a crimp blood blister
tear of ink in pulp

I almost my breath
almost the iron railing
almost in the head

I don’t remember
before chasm rhythm quake
I only know now

I was always this
sway and titch and iron
curls off the lathe

I am a fall on floor
I inbend wrong not part of
now new pared-down hand

new in the paste pot
new in hot turns rip’d minutes
old scar chromium

a molten spasm
still as a mote in furnace
dead as someday sun

I am always tway
I titch you witherhanded
and you tuck away

time once I once some
other going-to-the-sun
wet wild limb’ry boy

still as patter’d mud
sans coulé en haut coulee
and I was not sick

I ran in ryegrass
I carried her from Brooklyn
rock to J train sleep

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Speaking of Breath, almost

  • A poem by Greg Correll.

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