Julia Azzouz, Copy Editor

It’s not like the seasons,
death to life, or life to death,
not like the first sight,
the skipping pulse, the stolen breath.
It’s not a bleeding fruit,
a poison apple or a tight white pill.
It’s not a dog from hell,
a tweeting bird, a rabid kill.
It’s not like the Earth around the Sun
or the snake and his own tail,
not like the sinner and his stone,
or the builder and his nail.
It’s not like the ticking of a clock,
so fastidiously frail,
the months and weeks and minutes
that thoughts to sight prevail.
It’s not a pinprick of light
or a prisoner’s freedom,
not an anchor in the sea
or a glittering kingdom.
It’s not like a tall loud voice,
a lofty giggle, a siren’s call,
not like the seas or skies,
or anything real at all.
It’s not a curse, and not a lie,
yet not a single stubborn truth,
it’s like anarchy in science,
or a preacher in his booth.
Yet it’s not like a sacrament,
an exorcism or a fall,
more like tomorrow and today,
some graffiti on a wall.
It’s like a confesséd fabrication,
like god, red, and dawn,
constellations and success,

the delay of a yawn.