Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Fifteen Winter 2007 |
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ache trade Barton Smock the aluminum triangle, belly-hung. say deathbed, say calling me home. knot the neck of god in a congregating hunger. the fed hymn, foot path pastoral, ma your note in a southern cellar. these things come back blacker. how you stored the broken animals in their own bone down here where breathing is a hole in a raft, slow sunday water crying before crying, where cups of earth sit on shelves but not impatiently, farmers twist ankles routinely refill each socket worrying the land loose like the strap of a charred cheap purse next to an eye on the bank every time I look it’s there, ready to go to town with its carefully tin foiled mirrors. |
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About Barton Smock |