Me: decibel, you: Parthenon, or the other
way around, which was always part

of the problem, though I don’t call it
problem now because, well, because

a row of pineapples, because someone
said all her Marks have moved

to San Francisco, because these strobing
clouds, that virus. The only bounds

of happiness: future. Past: the only bounds
of happiness. Because I’m making

it up as I go, and I read too many lovelorn
threads, finding my story inevitable

only when someone else tells it. Muse
as settling or muse as apex? I think

we lasted as long as it took for you
to realize a reinvention in my eyes

would only go so far—or the other
way around? That’s the funny thing

about looking. Love is neither created nor
created. Me: voice, you: voice, me:

search party, you: lantern, you: zero, me:
divided by zero, the intentionally insecure

password in a world of beautiful doors.






As I see it


the man who reads stories to sleep

roasts meat to keep from seeing
how the hunter mostly
does not hunt

but waits

for something to begin

does not ride motorcycles so much as
dream about riding motorcycles
and being tall

and being understood

which is what we all want to be

talking about the weather
adjusting our collars in mirrors
waking up old

in a forest
in a city
incapable of telling you

what you most want to hear

what we all want to hear

even you who
as I see it hides
behind fields and sockets and
everything you can make
out of wood

though it may be that you just did not

love me back




RACHEL J. BENNETT likes motor inns and dislikes tomatoes. Her chapbook, On Rand McNally’s World, will appear in 2015 through dancing girl press. Individual poems can be found in Big Lucks, inter|rupture, Salt Hill, Similar:Peaks::, Sixth Finch, Rattle, Verse Daily, and Vinyl. Twitterites can find her @rachtree11.





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