Amnesiacs, All

122 I tasted you here. Not knowing the difference. A plane of experience passed through me with the pulling of comb’s teeth, forgetting. Hairwaxed and waned. A porch light, painted, speckled diorama, the beloved fingerlings pinned to satin, blown-glass sealed. You sound so much of gunpowder in an empty room as a blue-green beetle nests in my teacup. The secret pores, honey and hive. I was the woman who entered the riverbed, turning it. Not knowing the distance. A hand holds a dying bird. Both tremble. KELLI ANNE NOFTLE AMNESIACS, ALL ...