my feet press against the shutters
holding back the dark as I read
Billy-Ray Belcourt
watching the words pour into me;
ink blots,
inaccessible
I could make a fence around breath and laughter and
meaningless joy and routine sadness
here it is, sketched with broken
pencil smudged by the palm of my hand
but would you see it?
I drop the vase before it’s wrapped in cellophane and
there’s no such thing as kintsugi for a poem or
if there was all the meaning already spilled into
the carpet i keep my feet off
This article is a part of The Ubyssey's 2023 language supplement, In Other Words.
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