Eric Morris Let it Rise and Seperate

There's a tweak in the weather forecast

that reminds me of displaced anger.

How a punch displaces teeth, rubber

bullets a crowd, my voice displaced

from my body when calling, does it hurt?

upwind from small commotions—so much

for clear warning signals. There are times

I go hunting for what I haven't lost, never

domesticated: the slamming of a revolving

door at two a.m, my virginity, a god displaced

by a fascination with one's own anatomy.

What the water—a rusted lake—can't devour,

swims in my body until I, a land-burdened animal,

come up for air. A gasp is like a commitment

to bipedal motion. The way I best escape.

What I can't keep in, will rise to the top.

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