The Poetry Project


Trace Peterson

I love this scroll bar, increasing in density
your paw on my shoulder a gentle, foggy
offering. Meanwhile, I’m hunched
against some crooked shoulder-length wall tones
trying to determine how Leigh
Bowery can see out from inside that full immersion
wig. In the Bowery, there’s this cobbled
Salvador Dalí, leathery together
but then suddenly this moat appears
around my voice. You should come over,
you should try to be my cobbled life
says the worn-away toe of the boot, as it turns
back into a lucky nightclub. “If we’d stayed there
two minutes longer, you’d have been the filling
in a sandwich.” In this poem, I’m spread all
over town. I’m reaching toward the rough-
smooth line of your chin, a polluted creek, a non-
elegiac context without piazzas dangling from
the scenery. You can take another’s voice,
and mock their lack, but Dalí will get it back.

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