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Oblation: Prose Poem

Until the fire finally dies

From a small irreflective shadow — a gift — a reorientation of the myth — the pools that form

below the words — cry for a goddess to unstitch herself from the constellations above — I’ll just

offer this body — will that do — I don’t know what the rust is doing on my feet — I carve slowly out of each rock I find



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J.D. Harms

Former hairstylist, perpetual philosophy student, swallowed by poetry, writing, ideas