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Kristi Maxwell: Swarm

September 16, 2022 by PBQ Leave a Comment

Nothing is sleeping near me.

The swarm is daylight

wadding up the dark

construction paper of night.

The swarm is pointillist,

is paint-by-numbers moved

before drying. Continuous drip.

Swarms remind me of poets

and my country folk

announcing on a hot day

their assessment: ‘s’warm.

The last swarm I saw was

of locusts, duh, charring a field

in 19th century North Carolina.

Filmic because in fact a film.

It is not time to sleep.

Filed Under: Issue 103, Poetry, Poetry 103 Tagged With: Kristi Maxwell

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