bull, i

this poem is a moving tar
-get, sludged-smudge scribble 
of a scrabbled star. she’s too far 

off center to make her point, dart
-ing about in the dark without 
a true mark. she’s got one dang

-ling thought caught on a line
but she’s quite sure she won’t 
catch it. at least, not in time. 

::

written for poetic asides November chapbook challenge.

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