Leveler Poetry Journal
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THE SEVENTH

 

 

 

I’ve told you nothing—I’ve pointed myself to encircled shock and sacrificial effort—yet, love must wage what tenderness consumes—lesser comforts for much, too much—and for the one upended in binds—faithfully shamed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Listening to a music heard between frames, we, engorged by attention, describe an intense heat rising off a perpendicular line—skeptically immeasurable—and likened to Rothko’s self-immolation—his own relation— unable to describe—homesickness, done with—piety wedded in new oil.”




LM Rivera