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February 1, 2023


Z.H. Gill

A poem called “Band-Aid.” I string together

another four “poem’s called’s” beneath—a device—but

none get the ring right. I pivot, I change course; I

take on the crawlspace beneath my apartment.

I go in with head-lamps. I misspell head-lamps

as heat-lamps: beneath my apartment,

I open a buffet.