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so daylight


is not monogamous
and they know this detail

and the frill of his overcoat
and her frail suede arms

they are still waiting for the lamplight
to resolve itself

she is still in the quiet pouncing
and fanning her eyes

he is still extracting the theater of it
still reciting flesh of my flesh

clouds cackle overhead
at the speed of a man swimming

the sky behind them orange
and very small

she shows him the bottom of the cup

their faces like flat gold coins
do not flicker or shape

he says yes it is quite empty

his point of entry


last night silk-strings of corn

pulled off, white and delicate

like fingers, strips of 

in blank light she wrote:

no screaming,

my dear one, my strong

pulse. slipped through the door

to survey the land. off of a ship,

bloody with waves. she carried

a sack to me

with something like violets
but less purple. i couldn’t

differentiate. suppose

the whole world was a flock

not of sheep, but geese.

crawling upriver,
laying eggs. 
i see her

and i know the way

her arms will cup themselves,
the way she will dismount a bike.

in the prism

of the outdoors

where we stand, not knowing

the type of brick, what comes
of kernels, the wool.

Mackenzie Kozak holds a BA from Wake Forest University and an MFA from UNC-Greensboro. She lives in Asheville, NC where she admires mountains and grocery stores. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Boston Review, Denver Quarterly, jubilat, Sixth Finch, Thrush Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. Find her online at 

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