It's been a year
and I've still got words by the napkinfull.
Too many notebooks get lost in the move.
sunk between the cardboard cleavage
the crooked pages aren't giving it away anymore
soft blue lines pine sideways after lazy bookspines
These poems need excavation teams
and at least two restoration experts
to bridge the gaps between jagged serifs and flooding narratives
where the steering wheel intruded
and the words began to swerve.
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