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Amee Broumand




a pattering down upon all, blearing the windows

of houses (patter) of cars (patter) and glowing

streetlamps (pattern) (the lights within watch—grey

turns to darkwater, falling—papershapes

pinned upon fabric, the dress to-be looks up (sightless) at

the dressmaker, who crouches down and takes

hold (her daughter a royal damsel, yes) struggling to wield

(in the rainlight) scissors (mere fabric feels

nothing—red and gold, the wet leaves (dead)

plaster the walkways and lanes (here, papers and pages that lastly

sog, yielding to an old hand and every foot that patters

in darkness home—


les nuits d’hiver


I would discard yet also keep

my sex (I am an old man

fierce and earthen, not the slim girl

in the glass (yet I feel no need

to make others see this facet 

of me (I walk in ambiguity like

the dusk, reveling in my tensions,

drawing them taut (a spider

is nothing without them, nor her sack

of howling puce—




sunset at the shell of all


what great whorl is this,

what roseravish tart, untested

(shall I taste you? (the spell

of the goldhour seizes my soul,

eating me until I’m all bone

and one with the light (how fast

it goes—




the cœur, the heat



I was never in a war—(nine

(nine?) years later 

after the dreams and the drinking

I still see your stars—

(the light descends


les nuits
sunset at the shell
the coeur, the heat
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