Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Nine Winter 2005 |
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Too Long Sean Kilpatrick Too long have I mistaken your breath for the ignition of secrets. The sun for your gallbladder, dialing its symphonies of cremation. Autopsy for the horizon, yanking the orange prophecy of tongue out through the evening’s neck, past my dinner-swollen belt. This euthanasia of atmosphere is understandable, recommended even. This killing of the sky with surgical rhythms. God bless the giant tourniquet raised in vain. Or were we running down a muzzle, praying for more indifferent rains to sweep roadkill us into a calming toupee? It’s the smell that forces me to love you. |
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About Sean Kilpatrick |