Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Fifteen Winter 2007 |
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you are here for my wife Barton Smock it’s old. this what have I done, this dark ship. the crates steadfast in their charge of silence, the ice bored and breaking. we move in our cabin bed as murdered light slinking through a shut-off. our hurt a slack blue puppet, bruise on the dancing air. I say I’m sorry a net holds water your shoulders too small for the hand reaching down to shrug them. |
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About Barton Smock |