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Meet me in the white space between the words, where
the language of tongues has no boundary, and end sheets
frame the rooting around. We’ll dance the iambic dance,
frolic in the form, engage enjambments, at least to here.
Then, we’ll peel off the clothes of figurative speech layer
by layer— left bare. To hook and bud like dogs and howl
at the moon has purpose— It’s not ironed into starched
syllables, overdressed dialect. It is. We are—
two pronouns with animal itch. Muse, follow the pen
by breath and beat— Meet me. Let’s blur this syntax of flesh—
water—bone, before we are a thin-bound volume shelved
among silences, titled Regret. Moon a memory.
Copyright 2018 Juniper White.
This poem was previously published in a 2013 anthology titled: Sarasvati Takes Pegasus as Her Mount.