Shanna Compton Never Again

Never Again



Three tries and three erasures.

Placing the last side on a box-me-in,

I must or I can’t sleep.


I open the book called Never

again so that it negates itself. I find myself

at intertwine,


at encroach upon,

sliding into an abrupt exhalation.

A good idea, to breathe.

The room at night


is a different room

with morning’s furniture,

the same animals, the same unseen

and unsaid.


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