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Jeffrey Ethan Lee: her blues

May 16, 2011 by PBQ

—and the teaspoons
you gave me
are tadpoles running
through my fingers
in dishwater, oh
not really—
unless
the traffic
on Race St. is
a multi-colored chain,
or a pigeon flock
is scattered cards
winging their numbers
away, or
a car door
screeling open
in icy wind
is a seagull
crying over the lot—
and who is
facing me
and always was
comes through me,
a melody
luring me in
like a velvet dress
or a dark pond
that injures me—
and I never
hear over three-
thousand miles
that you’re some-
where else till I read
“Itemized Calls” like
breaking china—
even if
I stop dancing,
even if
I start
laughing
at photos
of accidents
in the papers.

Filed Under: Contributors 68, Issue 68, Poetry, Poetry 68 Tagged With: Contributors 68, Jeffery Ethan Lee, Poetry, Poetry 68

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