heart of ruins if body remains
thoughts no physical substance
heart of ruins if body remains
a view of blurry trees the ground a gutter of foraging crows
thoughts no physical substance
both sides at once straddling the closed door effort of substance to make rooms we can afford the dollar is dropping all for a barrel of threshold which still living in same apartment walking everywhere typing like a mind avoided by pedestrians buying computers speaking on cell phones their hoped-for-meanings not contained inside awareness people seem larger than rooms though the room i sit in is larger than piecemeal assemblies talking about nothing encompassing sections or circumstances that beget the present perhaps in spite of being occupied or portrayed by the same spaces throughout the poem loam is different than moss the subtext of marriage is snare composed of 98 sections of pretense arranged by authors turned into spouses each writer's mind wanted to be read instead books lie in the warehouse or are never printed in the first place meaning storage is boring so is control of information arranging words on a page the computer is a desk containing stanzas divided into sections waiting to be written never read instead one hopes for a single listener or reader a seer of meaning if only
Bobbi Lurie's poem, “heart of ruins if body remains,” published in this issue, is part of her fourth poetry collection, the morphine poems, which has just been published by Otoliths (Austrailia). Her other books are Grief Suite, Letter From the Lawn and The Book I Never Read. She lives in New Mexico.
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