by Douglas John Imbrogno
I think that I cannot be killed,
that my work is incomplete,
not yet completely manifested.
Ergo, it is not possible that by
leaning over in my vehicle to reach
a fallen hat I might upend the car.
Send my heart through the
steering wheel. Why do I think this?
Why do we think this way?
That we are not in the bulls-eye
of the marksman. This is a willed deception.
If I let such truth seep into my
field of vision, I would need to admit —
I might not be so special, after all.
~ from “The Air Is Full of the Dreams of Sleeping People” (forthcoming chapbook)
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