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Famous Reporter # 33
 

JEN CRAWFORD

        late rescue

 

           midden

   over the rise the white
fly away
 
         you tune the headache
on shell and bone
 
it’s the forty-fifth day.
 
radio silence.
 
   back at the colour hole they’re
jammed in against the sun’s swoop
down to sucking marrow
  & longing
       for the shoal hush you have now,
envoy
 
in the wide open
  you pick through salt and skin flake
 
store your minerals
  in blurry maps
translucent over bone
 
finger remains & formulate your
position: the closer the edge the finer
  the particles there was water. no,
            the closer the centre the finer
the particles there was fire
            reducing     you my silver
               tiny green
                                    you my mercury
              mite
 
         back at the colour hole the stranded what year -
 
       but you’re out you’ve reached the line of sight
     no thinking back;
 
        just the feeling of lightness settling in.
    a freighter blip. another.
 
light of days settling in
 
 
                         scattering the view
 
                           hollowing your elbows
              did you know
                that wet blue fish bent coccyx tide
     collapsing                               do you
                            know that oceanic
                                        scatter
late rescue.
 
home I’m waiting.       I receive.
rosary to you recognise

     even the sound

     of an aeroplane

 

 

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