Jennifer Moore She Gets Very Close to the Mirror

A little too near the eye: a little

too near, but from it I take
sunspots, nerve endings,

tiny rooms of quiet. Through

an electric tunnel, train cars
cross noiselessly; they carry

nobody home. What's there

is not found under the lid
or in the corner of a closed

sleep, but along the lining

of an ear: when I get close
I'm a noise, stepping on bulbs

and crushing glass. In your eye,

summer is a damselfly
in one of my bones. The green

lacewing sings through the lens.


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