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not muted; another story

we string and are strung. the [     ] of the story depends on [        ]. i’ve lost some of the mattering of symbols. but i pull back, back into the hallway of brokenness. i see it threefold: window, bone, foot. i saw [  ] at church, once. there had to be more, but the formative [   ] strings and is strung. and [  ] still there. and the guilt of provocation.


the rooms i inherited:

1. away from the colors of [       ] and [      ]; own tv humming into the night, ringing in the new year; the club formed for [    ] only, and i left the room; can’t even remember the set-up –

2. years after; was even bigger but covered [       ]; the loneliness of an abandoned [    ]; more colors forgotten; but the sunburn remains, something we had in common –

3. the space of now-and-then; everyone else who has slept here; and it never feels less [     ].


stubborn streaks burn halos into [   ] palms as [  ] string and [   ] strung. the history of fuck tied to [   ]st and [   ]er. i wonder about the use of [   ]. what it offers. what it does. simply noticing the bridge between, covered in [     ]. these shards are not stained window. they are not kaleidoscope lens. they are shards.

i fail to string and am strung.

Lucas Bailor is an emerging writer from Moreno Valley, CA. He is currently working towards his MA in English. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in SHARKPACK Poetry Review, Boston Accent Lit, and POST(blank).

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