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Mark Parsons

             I Believe You


said what you said. And beyond that,

not much.

The resulting sadness

concentrates my self-awareness,

at the same time

smashing it into abundant refractions

that dazzle like the afternoon sun

I enter squinty-eyed

after drinking in a darkened corner of the bar all morning,

the sequined bodice of a day

gaudy and overexposed through a tangle of eyelashes.

What eating frosted cake

waxy tasting with too much paraffin

however shiny it may be

does to every thought you have about cake.

Often I’m able to

reason backwards from a proposition, or at least discover

the murky origin

in a far recess of a stranger’s unconscious,

but with all this talk,

what was it?

Something about bears,

hypothetically tracking them…not.

I’ve got to stop. I mean,

it’s a clear day.

Prowling the lowlands while dressed in this highlander camouflage,

when I look up and see not a cloud in a sky

torn to scraps and swatches beyond the leafy canopy,

it means there's little to no chance of torrential rain and all it drenches

helping a profile that’s optically fractured and broken

but only in ways wholly conspicuous

blend in. Every tree and bush and rock formation

will continue to look

real, thus

keeping me and the ones who are watching oriented

until I ease in place, slide and

come to rest

in the vertex where myriad crosshairs converge.

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