pull from the light three times daily

take in water all at once, then nothing all at once

despise the hands of children

upon the lids of the dead, weigh heavy

recant wild fields, perpetuate meadows

cover smaller things

present yourself, a plague in someone’s shoe

stay so precisely still that all become an elsewhere

know only the territory of your non-space

the fields will destroy you, and the waters; let them

around the necks of others, dance

allow yourself the small gap against all

do not envy the other colors

you are among: the house, the wall, the grave

you are alone: the sign, the mark, the token

before you were, you were something else

the lungs of the dusk beneath earth

name you bear inside that silence
 
 Photo by loufi

Jacqueline Winter Thomas

JACQUELINE WINTER THOMAS has poems appearing in The Journal, Redivider, TAB, DIAGRAM, and the North American Review among others. She is a contributing editor at Eratio and teaches classes in poetry and form. She is interested in the convergence of poetics and philosophy and has an MFA in poetry from the University of North Carolina, Wilmington.

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