the destroyer > text > Parker Tettleton
THREE POEMS
The first sentence is fine or used to it. Elevators are mentionable because
they are what they carry inside. Your blood is my blood & July. This plane
is my plane because it goes away & that state is your state because it always
was.
Four floors above less us––the want that there is a one, consistent skin &
elevator inflections––we wake to sweat, keys missing. The second sentence
is an inclination there are stairs to not saying anything. We dog-ear blinks,
circadian aisles. The rest was in the door, on the outside, when we went to
recycle.
The sound is this one I make when I don’t want to hear. You’re audibly
missing to your mother. You’re a telephone in a separate room to me. The
fourth sentence holds a mirror up to look for bald spots. The fifth is more of
a drink.
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