<span style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px; border-collapse: collapse;">UNTITLED<br><br>These days won’t abide – my slung love, <br>my tutor, my boyfriend, my crush. Do you <br>
resist reporting? Are you the detective, leave-<br>taker, the empty-eyed got? My simplest questions,<br>church bells threatening the air.<br><br></span><div><span style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px; border-collapse: collapse;"><br>
<div><br></div><div>WHAT CROWS DO IN RAIN<br><br>‘It’ never occurred. Play this jump. Preserve<br>
your loneliness. It never occurred<br>to me—sing—in crooked time. Refuse<br>shelter for<br>little sparks at your wings. Every turn<br>along the trunk is possible<br>until tunes lose homing vision.<br>Mom is wiping flour from her hands,<br>
her gold straining at the neck to be precious.<br>I never noticed the doorway<br>behind my shoulder until a stranger walked through.<br>Up in top nooks there’s a cliché looking down;<br>That’s also yearning, and only that from outside.<br>
<br></div><div><br></div><div><b>Hazel McClure</b> wrote <i>Nothing Moving, </i>a chapbook from Lame House press. Her work has been published in <i>Mirage #4/ Period(ical</i>), <i>the tiny </i>and<i> Coconut</i><i>.</i><span> </span>She lives and writes in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where she is a librarian.</div>
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</div><br>-- <br>RealPoetik<br><a href="http://realpoetik.blogspot.com">realpoetik.blogspot.com</a><br>