Marc Swan

M a r c  S w a n 

    before the lies begin

eyes closed, lips pursed, head tilted, feet planted

I try to imagine the impact, the suddenness, the roar

of a rocket slamming into this closed room, ripping

its way through the walls, the ceiling, the door

I’m looking for the window I closed that is no more

I’m looking at my limbs, upper and lower, that seem

to be tangled and falling, falling

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