TE20 Migrant Mosaics

Márton Simon

This isn’t a poem, but something the wind blew over from the building across the street—are they tearing it down or just building it?— a seven-story-long, green, plastic safety net I’ve gotten myself tangled up in. These are the things I say while thinking about your spine, your naked back, and something, like an unfinished sentence, an unfulfilled promise, always between us. And then about how if it’s a safety net, why doesn’t it keep me safe?


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