Anurak Saelaow



Doubled up or doubled over,
the body’s double doubles back

into the throng like a hook
down a throat. I see him

and I let him go, his hiss
already a mystery. He wants

leave to wing it, a sad jig
to fit his words into.

Hand the man a space,
a cloud’s ambit, cliffs

steep enough to barrel down.
Give him time to range  

along this host of trees with
all his drang and drizzle.

What a waste to breathe and be
amidst that saturnine pratter.

It’s true — we came to blows
once. I was thinking but

my fists were taut, hands
already at his throat.


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