david hadbawnik





empty ingots of bone against bone

clock against wave, bass note

against . . ? No one answers.

Hello? she calls into the poem.

It’s vast and deep, there

in her hand. There are lifetimes

wriggling inside. Zygotes.

Amoebas. She leans down,

listening. Ah—

hear that? A low howl,

as of distant wind. A dry

ocean bed, nothing but waves

of air, cataracts of silence.

The blunders of whimpering windows.









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