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Fingerprinting

These soft round boxes
flat in which vellum runs
a tapered and personal grimace
across skin blistered by
rinds of snow

look to me like rictus
I’m hunched over this black
keypad trapping spaces to
the alphabet

I’m hunched over my own lack
shrilled by sunshine and slush
The maps blend into the paper

and smudge at the faintest touch

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Posted by Lewis LaCook at 3:11 pm | Postmodern Poetry | Permalink

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