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By Cindy Rinne From Issue No. 3

After blue poplars.

Frosted fingertips static.

My sketched brief face

Blends into rough trunk.

Around this time,

I would sing to the trees

Like my mother sings:

The icicle drips.

Dodges sun.

Touches the smoke

Of my breath.

Of my breath.

Of my breath.

Earlier, cranial sutures–

Don’t join at the base

Of my estranged skull.

Thoughts blur

In the emptiness.

A random black hole


Into my cranium.

Because who else can I be?

About Cindy Rinne More From Issue No. 3