Eunice Blavascunas Ph.D.
Photo: anyjazz65
This limb
The one with digits never used for counting
Sees out its elbow
Hears with small hairs
That come into contact with your sleeve
My skin is peopled
A nocturnal bunch
They know more than I
They invent my past when my eyes are glass
An elision for every rib
A haunting in each crease
By what good grace do they disclose something new
Stay up all night to eavesdrop
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