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You Ask Me to Talk About the Interior


it was all roadside flowers & grasses
            growing over the cities

was made of wilderness & sky
            with God washed out of it

was the foreign prayer-word
            it was a list of missing persons

was the solid bronze charging
            bull on the famous street

was like the Roman method for making bees

was its taken-down carcass
            & its bed of apple branches & thyme

was a new anatomy, a beaten hide,
            a skeleton sweetening to glowing fluids,

& the bee born out, & the grist of them born
            glistening as coins

it was anthem
            was the listening,

the way a searchlight listens over a lake
            it was the prayer-word out of your mouth
your thousand-noun request
            it goes up up to the florescent weather

was an ivory box,

was hurdle & burn, burning through
            the infinite, your overbright comet

was made of stones, made of berries & box tops & eggshells
            it was like the word having reached the ear

& the words pollinated the dark, there was darkness there,
            like the after-hours inside a library


Carolina Ebeid

Colorado Review

Summer 2014


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