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by Siobhan Phillips

Morning pried apart, a shell
of paled oyster, grayed blue-white
calcified spit. Broth of a chill
muscle. Day still raw. A clot
of sun, milky grit, rolls
higher as it dries. It lights
the street. It pearls a fluid wall
of glass and steel to calm flats
of shine, drowns a rooftop’s rails
in high-tide gold. In air. I set
my old beginnings on soft hills
of private ice. How long till guilt
rounds into fault? Bedsheets fall
in rimmed waves, in fields of salt.


Siobhan Phillips lives in New Haven, Connecticut.

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