Amanda Montell – Poetry

ASK ME ON A BREEZE

Where do I live?

There is a balcony
above every major metropolitan city
and parts of Tennessee,
impossible to see from any
church spire
or avalantic snowcap.
It’s half a suspended swamp
and almost a song
and it is
wrought
iron.
There is a flowerpot full of airplanes.
There are electric lips and French bees.

Inside, post cards that smell like pine needles
drip upwards from the cherry floor.
There is no address other than
the sound of an
alveolar trill.

But where is my body?

Probably next to a suitcase or a mailbox.
Probably east.
Priced to a five number tag.

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