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Pseudomorph


I feel like a me-
like shape, like the real she

has cast me off, spurt me out
and left me to face her predators,

like the real me is off
enjoying her airpocketless body,

while I stay behind going blotto,
a so-so blurb on the back of a book,

a blurry word. My beak keens
for something to say, but I'm a bubble

that's lost its thought, an ink-tank
without a think. O morph, o nym,

I'm know I'm just your pseudo,
your thin skin, but please

return my heart and other vitals.
It's thankless, this being like,

this being not quite right.


Rebecca Hoogs

Self-Storage
Stephen F. Austin State University Press


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