by Carolina Ebeid
One sentence held the echoes of a room without furniture.
One narrowed like a corridor leading from the outside in.
One sentence grew out of fashion with the disco-ball maker.
One was radial & wheeling, & the verb spun at the center.
One forecasted an avalanche. One melted on the sand.
One widened its plot for the burying of corpses.
This one came zoo-tamed eating with other nocturnals.
This one came caged like a hotel fire alarm.
This one was a wound.
This one a stitch.
This a cicatrix.
Copyright ©:
Carolina Ebeid
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