Levees break in the brain. Wind

flips the leaves over. This

late morning the sun

still hasn’t burned off

the bad dream from earlier.

Something is subtracted, added

from what you thought was

permanently. Everywhere I

is under construction. Half of this

is an illusion. See here you

there is no place that does not from.

Observe the pieces piled around

temporary walkways, cocoons

wrapping condos. Before our

earthen time, directionless

hardens into labyrinths—later you

always mistake it for

what changes.

Author Image

Garret Burrell attended UCLA and Sarah Lawrence College. His chapbook, The Plague Doctor, was published by Achiote Press in 2008, and he is the former poetry editor of At-Large Magazine. He has been at work on a book dealing with global warming and evolution. He currently lives in Brooklyn.

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