Mind as conflagration,
mind as a canting floor—

not as in

raw red

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,

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.