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Blue Glass


by Lizzie Skurnick


Of course that's seen 
behind a screen. The lake 

by day is patternless gray, 
the O of breath-stoked 

mirror or a chain-smoked 
sky, slim fingers 

rising, as smoke lingers. 
Anyway, it's burning. 

I'm still learning 
to snap and send 

and recommend 
these shot-staggered 

panes when how suddenly 
strange it seems not to know 

how at all to reach you 
with even one of these 

wide fish bellies 
bumping up against 

the screen. 
Fenced-in, 

penned, poor trout 
keening, thrashing to get out.


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