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Perfection Is Not a Question

Tom Blood

we pull apart how
parts of it are crude
or the intention too wrenched on
placing wind glass knives
on a sun grown porcelain prairie

in place of love
wings open, intake increases
in a seat taken, you went to the moment
captured as lions take a photo

after events of sleep
the lion car continued
our cup of journey filling
perfection unquestioned

alone at a good party
of nascent flowers, romantic dance
cauliflower shell
what a bird is made of
the airplane in my hand
gripping the rests of flight

I wander along the ice cream stand
holding spoon and edge
for the end of stories

to mail an adjunct of journey
written invisibly on our walk home
what holds us from falling in the void,
empty line behind

walk home from a boxcar
void’s empty offering voice
intersection, a splinter and oyster shell

stepping off walls in place of love
I wore black on my cape