Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Fifteen Winter 2007 |
the resumed estate for Yusef Komunyakaa Barton Smock I know moony eyed old men who would steady your hand on the trumpet and start stories about losing fingers only to make stronger the remaining three my ghost for yours we’ll be at it all day this trying to hold hands the full body of your body catching the rippled wink of the lake my own body a paper cane leaning into a leg the fast sound of frogs underground dry kingdoms of men talking to men without music when jazz was a word with a hole in it and the night a bow legged slave we could walk whitely under. |
About Barton Smock |