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Night Driving by Holly Schindler

Red and yellow, like sunspots, flashbulbs,

alien spacecraft, haloed angels--

are you blurred like I am,

flying away from your address,

tossing spilt salt over my shoulder,

speedometer leaning right--

are you blurred like those signs,

intersections, headlights after dusk

when bars are full of clanking bottles, come-ons--

have you ever been blurred

like the world before my dried out contacts,

like an abstract, a superstition...

like I am before your 20/20 vision?

Fucking Sonnets by Holly Schindler

That's a verb,

already,

not an adjective--

subject implied.

As in:

I am in the active

process

of fucking sonnets.

Nothing perverted,

just breaking a champagne

bottle

on their asses,

sending them

along

on their way to

hell.

And as for that,

fuck Frost,

who never played

dress-up

or held a

tea party,

who never

learned

imaginary tea

(much like

tennis

without a

net

is always

so much

better

than the real

thing.