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POETRY / Florida's New Space Program / Sara Comito


Bat centrifuge is Venus
within half parens of moon.
Canopy of too-tall palm
punches both of them 
right in the bread basket.

I am swept in a sidewalk
tide of wedding-gifted wine
observing the featureless
strangers fishing for poisoned
fish in the canal. The tumbler
describes its inner slant, 
point fixe in a crazy gyroscope,
call it 26.6406° N

In cobalt twilight the whole 
world wants to scream:
are you touched or just simple? 
If you know which, you can’t
be the other – call it
Emily’s divinest sense. 

A neighbor spies
me, most of his belongings
on the lawn. Well, how 
would I know? Except
that there’s nothing
for him to make room for. 

(He’s gruff, I’m aloof.
But at least we have
that in common.)

Up north, I hear,
the geese have started
on their way. In some months
soon will down pad satellite of bat.

Sara Comito is a writer living at 26.6406° N, so when Corona promises to "change your whole latitude," she doesn't know whether it's a threat or a promise. Her poetry has been published in places like Thrush Poetry Journal, Mojave River Review, Pirene's Fountain, and Blue Fifth Review. Her first fiction piece is due out in the humor magazine Defenestration.