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Zach Savich

bees vanish but also hive in more spots      sunglasses in grasses a

billowing tarp     plain air evidence of their going     rust prevents

corrosion     you’re trying to make a place     more than to make it to a

place     vegetal rust

wrens campari-rinsed     it serves     she said the tumors must be holy

bringing you     as they do     so close     clothesline cloudburst and clovers

the mind’s more wax than wick     posts abraded soft     a psalm that starts

perhaps     perhaps try this same piece of the puzzle     in the same gap

next month

Zach Savich is the author of eight books of poetry and prose, including Daybed (Black Ocean, 2018). Recent work has appeared in jubilat, Kenyon Review, Fonograf Editions Magazine, Salt Hill, Pleiades, Verse Daily, and elsewhere. He teaches at the Cleveland Institute of Art.

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