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Julia Bloch


the cup was full of ash
a felt thing
the window full

“Your body is like an anatomy.”
A holiness in packing the suitcase,
a holiness in something dressed.

I held the cup and I felt the cup
long past the edge
something calendrical

a labour toward precising
this chaos of documents
a labour toward

“Your body is like an anatomy.”
I held the cup.

The Selfist

This narrow fortune, this
hand in absentia. Descent
of any kind, plus ascent.
I feigned a story but it’s
all mine, all my mouth.
My spotless love hovers
with white wings
. Every piece
of clothing I ever lost
adorns the arm I’ve got
twisted at my spine.
Darkening stems
of the lower plants—
you’ll find me listening
for them to collapse in this heat.

The Passenger

for Charles Bernstein

The first fact is the social body.

And then our arrows pointing
toward the heavy floors,
something crashing into
a sonnet of little things, etc.
I wanted a “find” function for the idea
of the other. At Lake Merced they
fire shots at imaginary birds while
real birds erupt from cypress.
A knot of experience turning inside
the sentence, like how at the airport
they say “There’s weather in Pittsburgh.”
A sentence of long print, a sentence like
a body and its remainders.

 Sobre Julia Bloch

Lives in southern California, where she teaches literature and edits Jacket2 magazine. Her poetry has appeared recently in Aufgabe and Peacock Online Review; her book Letters to Kelly Clarkson is forthcoming from Sidebrow Books.