Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Issue Fifteen
Winter 2007
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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

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