The nautilus goes ‘round. I am not inside
the violet’s reclining head.
A tied blue bed. This may be how Poe slept.
Taut ropes, tension below. In a telltale heart,
the floorboards squeak.
Lady slipper pink, white birch twig.
Music box ballerina, spins, spins, spins.
A guard passes between galleries.
Dovecote: a vertical eclipse, black and white rows—25 one-inch holes.
From which of these did he depart?
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2.
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