poem by Greg Baines



soft petals cushioned by lips the

words fall from his mouth withering

grey under office lights. slow. no reason to.

rush. he tells me in razor barbed phrases

pushes them around. carefully. red ribboned letters.

leg quivers under the table as he twists and

mangles words, fires capital letters at me, the

afternoon light twitching in

death throws on the surface of the desk.

he turns me inside out so everyone can see

what’s inside me, the entrails of my life

autocorrected. aggravated ctrl c ctrl v.

at arms length from his class in his suit the violence of black ink on a screen that will decide, will decide. everything.


poem by Greg Baines

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