2 Poems
by Sara Mumolo

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March


The revolt you ate
when decency unscrewed.
—a lid skipping hardwood.

Dear you we pretend to be attentive
because we like detail.

I don’t recall the bad I did
in a scope of soot.
First principle of the doctrine of virtue.
My memory and its caterpillar.

Dear I I want to
live where I travel until I travel—

you say the sun will stain my face.
First principle of the doctrine of right.
You refuse—resign— screw our world—
and the dancer made a puppet of her
breasts with invisible strings—

Where the revolt
sees redwoods
nipples cleave your face

—a cleft where

empire stops:
trucks wasted with goods or trees.

Dear first principle
we should of made you up.

Caterpillars wailing,
nests recede from your feet
—I don’t appear so angry.

You pretend to be a wave

I try to seal into a jar







Landscape With A Calm

To station presence on day
a nation’s shoulder
makes a profession of mute things.

If I am older with morning.

—What lake craters
into glass:
air’s sword
task’s shadow
figures meant to fixate
that do once seen
until a sword
until a shadow—

I transfer money from one imagination to another.

Fuss of us kicking
feet into a chair.
One wants by shape and fray
where valor craters
the land stops thinking of you.

I am older this morning.

—When shape excuses
and our dog runs off again
making wind seem
making wind speed
up and take off the profession
we force it to admit
until land seems
to heave inside its shadow.
Compare this to a hand
rubbing black flecks of old
skin off today.

(Happy fallacy to you: to you.)