Micah Bateman


1 a. The static of rabbit's
fur on felt, the heat
of sleight of hand.
The magician's brush --
of-the-sleeve on my wrist
when I'm harvested
again from the crowd's
rolled anonymous hush,
b. the pulse of water
up xylem, into air.
2. The lulled deceit
of a name, what anyone
is called. Breath
3. that isn't oxygen.

Micah Bateman lives in St. Louis, MO. His poems have recently appeared in 21 Stars Review and Sub-Lit.

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