The Plot

The Iowa Review - - MICHAEL BAZZETT -

Who knows, re­ally?

For ev­ery day I move through sum­mer air easy as smoke,

there is an­other where I am weighted with mild de­spair,

as if the sacks of gravel stoop­ing my shoul­ders were real.

I may well be mov­ing within the mem­ory of an­other,

em­ployed as an ex­tra in his re­cur­ring dreams.

I want to be a bone in the body of some­thing

larger. An an­i­mal snuf­fling and pant­ing

as they drag it from the woods, strips of mus­cle tens­ing beau­ti­fully

even as its limbs tear at the ropes.

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