Julia Cohen

A Bright Wire Flown

 

I stemmed the verge

of your night-garden:

 

Whatever’s real dies

& mitigates the quantity

 

I unhooked the flower

 

Up up up      up

There you go

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Was Record

 

I miss bees in winter

 

Tuft, a treetop pushing

against the ceiling

 

Some say nothing

can mount the sky

 

A magnet under the ice

pulls the skater

toward me

 

I’m filled

with invisible arrows

& ice & ice

 

No buzz

 

A box is

human, a human

nest

 

The restness I compass

I forgive

the nuisance camera

 

Some say skin—

having done it

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