by Robert Gross
There are no words for
the way into
the thicket of silence
the mute swan
stuffed and mounted
hovering above
the bathing beauty
a solitary conception
of negative space
and feathered lust
a cold calculus of a hot
imaginary
number series randomized
behind glass
on a plaster of paris
river bank
painted flat
with real feathers
and consenting illusions
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