1. Tell me the story now in such
                             A way that I can hear it and still

    Catch my breath. Rage is an aneurysm of the old animal
    Brain, the reptilian gorge where nothing counts

    But the body’s urge & its boudoir
                             Of sulk and felt and shame.

    Tell me I have heard tell there is a city
    Where the graves float on the inconstant rain

    Not fanciful, but accidental, actual—like milkstone
    Spirits perched atop the smallest unbound human

    Forms who died as insignificants.
                             For me, it is too late in the story

    To die young, or guileless. I’d wanted once to love
    Your mouth on mine, its ether

                             Gasping through a gauzy
    Metal mask; I’d wanted to be breathed and taken

    To an actual, like an addict floating on a desperate tiny river
    Of open iridescent pigeons’ wings and the floating poplin

                             Smocks of dusky, spoony girls.
    As if I could breathe still.

    — Lucie Brock Broido, ‘The Insignificants’

     
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