Chella Courington



smudged & hard to read. I think I saw the letters
something else. Nothing so extreme

like two men in black bowlers or wrought-iron lamps
side by side. Nothing like that.

Maybe a vine mutated, ivy often does after years
of rock climbing, dehydrates & withers.

Maybe railroad nails sandpapered & painted, placed
on bookshelves, separating Walker from Welty

from Woolf. The longer I try to make sense of fl the
faster it shifts. I slap it down hard, my knuckles white

falling deeper into silence until the letters lose their shape.


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