the place between feelings
and a jar of tea is supposed to be poetry
but it’s nothing more than
the in-between organ or two that can’t be
called he or she but is maybe
Z or zim and zim doesn’t matter any
how because if I don’t go out
looking and kicking over wheel bar-
rows on chickens scattering
rain whatever everywhere where is zim
then? Kar blah blah kar blah
I save me, this is why I’m free. I sip on
cardboard cup of tea,
chickens at the market in the cooler pink skin in
their white light all around
me sit all around me they’re not moving.
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