Or else I said ash, as I do.
Selah, rise
to it, all not lit at.
No lot
empty or otherwise
swore the pity more
empty or otherwise
poor.
Yes, threw time
hope,
swore try it (me).
Empty or otherwise
they wire:
MORE STOP
lie all evocative i.e., I’ll vacate love.
A timid I admit
I want out now, taut, I
added need, dead ended
en route.
Seems I’m sewn too tight.
Spit me
to shine.
Moot emesis.
Wept rust me.
Get in.
Sometimes we step into something true.
Woke in the wake of he knew too.
Weak if,
thens.
Us, the sun’s
to set null, red into its unset still, rode into T-
minus us, us, in sum,
can’t solve.
Love’s cant:
forever.
Veer for
flingable alibi set:
all in a big life.
Best
caress scares
revile relive
a page agape,
snag nags
blink to ink blot
gives a visage
eyes I’d made. Seed my idea
in deed, indeed,
fit end to law:
pray and we flap.
I try to
fly as time.
Time flays
and falls on us, and falls on us
to (hint:
I dove into the void)
destroy (de-story).
I to pen:
open it.
From Stet by Dora Malech. Copyright © 2018 by Princeton University Press. Reprinted by permission of Princeton University Press.
Mind as conflagration,
mind as a canting floor—
not as in
nation’s
raw red
reward—
rather some
other mare’s
lore—plays up a
role. Apply us a
poultice of pulped bills
(cut, I bleed). Poll’s pupil, of
this sea be fealty’s fashion. I
obey, finish a last shift, see a
say-sickness, to swab
abscess, ways to skin
late cataplasm,
a meat past call.
Spend us
sends up
baubles, sad
baud, bless a
bit per second,
bent crop dies,
honored
horde. On
a bruising
in us I brag
as big ruin—
In America
I can re-aim.
From Stet by Dora Malech. Copyright © 2018 by Princeton University Press. Reprinted by permission of Princeton University Press.
from form
for to rest upon, rent of, stop our
notes’ onset.
O sentence once tense,
skin inks
indelible, was libel, sawed in
a shelf aflesh.
In meat, I meant, in meat
begin being
read, dear, a red
season as one’s
affairs afar, ifs
in wet blossom blown, so I stem.
Flower flew, or
eros rose,
or trees reset, or
please elapse
is lips, is lips. I slips
it into night. In tonight, it
plays splay,
sore throats’ dins I shored into stars. I
read dare
to be a snow-pure re-up, a bet won so
on aim, on I am,
throw worth
its harm, this arm,
mute song sung to me,
a moot am too.
From Stet by Dora Malech. Copyright © 2018 by Princeton University Press. Reprinted by permission of Princeton University Press.