Sean Cho A.
I PULL SCARVES
from my throat
like endless april in a suburb
when the gravel turns to mud
readying itself to become
a river someone three doors
over yells flood ` yells God
rolls his speed boat out from
the garage fills his arms
with photo albums and
dried nectarines i run outside
mouth open cloth dragging
behind no high ground
just old trees in attempt
to climb i toss the scarves
to a limb and no one reaches
out the silk threads are weak
can’t hold up a body
now like always words
have no use
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