Amy Miller



It wants to invent
somebody. At night,
it stands on end,
staring out the window
at the bone-faced moon.
If it could, it would
unscrew its anchor
and embrace a boomerang,
flash half hula-hoop,
half bracelet into the blackened
sky. But soaked
in a brine of blood,
it floats in the body’s
museum, tapping
the lung with a long,
impatient finger.


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