word for/word
issue 6: summer 2004
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Mary Kasimor






an end is the tragedy
of living removing. the end
of repetition climbing the tree.
(I never sat at the edge )
I never. came down the tree
was cut the house
was built then. torn down
in the room. I cried was
the voice, the physics
of tension. a lyric. in my throat
a lyric. in the tree
wind tore at
my. heart a degree of fallen
gravity a grave. in my house
becomes, a window a hole.
a field of grass my love. becomes
a desire a distance
a repetition, of trees.




more than this I am less
a sound as I cross fast
cross streets whose names
are fastened with metal

the poodle
                           ("is the sweetest")
on the block
                   in the whole

you--I don't recognize

your eyes are different
from the words of sighs that stream
out like rivers
sewage could be in
the back yard along with
lilacs and unnamed apples
origins existed before airborne

                             but what do I
know about all the feet mingling
directions                                 onto maps
so that the still air confuses
the dissection? this flat city

is unfathomable before
they figure out the directions
of the water's flowing
                        the desert
cleans us off if the sun
weren't tainted by its reputation
of production               and more beetles
that feed on walls

this is not a nightmare but the statues
and salt carelessly exists on the 50th
floor the law
                           accepts the same arrangement




I am sitting down
in loss
I am running through the third

life stealing bread crumbs         this trail
is nervous
can you smell its sweat?

I can't answer old truth
sayers in this prison
I am fed
and speak

caught up in a problem        it is a nest
of spare feathers

a molecular dab of DNA    an extension
of outer space

the movies made my hands into
science fiction extensions finding
tactile sound       my voice
as I chase you down

I say I love you
if this is true

directions move quickly causing

my love has made fire
in the next future




woolly mammoth

nothing else           in this solitary

room but fabrics
more quantities of          stitched
don't yell at the wearer

I have forgotten
the language of corporate

entities           a surprise ended it
the reds turned

I could use an earth
for a place to dye

the dirt I confess
to knowing more than anyone

else         theirs is only
a window
                     the electric
silence forced a confrontation

between committees       it could
have been everywhere
but I captured it        I kept

the insect's buzz in my fingers
and after I read the book
                                  of self
I stood in the line

aware of an analysis
of glove     then I dropped
the key       the climate was over





"Poetics is about creating a mythology, which I have been doing for many years. I am rewriting my world's possibilities when I write poetry." Mary Kasimor's work has appeared in Moria, Gutcult, eratio, Nedge, Lungfull!, xtant2, Cross-Cultural Poetics, and Nerve Lantern, among others. She usually lives happily with her two dogs, her significant other, and her son.

               /    o
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