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Jonathan Minton
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The Myth of LMNOP
 
As if from amnesia, the word gestate


without root, but still the pressure stemming from it,
the pressure to place: and heard before


as a sound from behind the wall: bit by bit,
it is furtive and small: a bird call


from which the eye draws an airborne calligraphy
into gathering clouds after each habit

of daybreak: written into such distance as this: what then
of its thread, of the never-said, the not yet un-


said, now dispersed as pollen
from the corners of the room? First the darkening


of blue on blue in the window, the view always flawed
by the interminable hesitation before glass


in which the day’s shroud unravels. Then the returning hero
hides his face and spits a pomegranate seed from his teeth


without speaking. As if from amnesia,
the narrative begins again, echoing


in jest: come back, come back.


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