The American Poetry Review


Three hearts beat in the octopusbut I have noneto spare. I won’t let this onewithout you. I’m fartoo selfish to grant youyour wish. No,let me disappear, first,after yearswaking each morning with a chest openthe way a trenchmight open after a quake.It’s takenthis long to see the fault linesbetween usare nothing from an aerial view:mere foldsin a topography so hugewe’re renderedinvisible, Each footbridgeor trestlewe construct along the impassablewill simply becomethe soon-to-be forgotten remainsof fabled civilizations.

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