Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-four
Spring 2014
Working Day
Harvey J. Baine

gum gum crushing grain
shoulders blue and gum
Leveling down for room
the spines.

I found a pup
set in growth
fat, tight, small as hands.

He died with the afternoon
and sky that could have been
the color of fish guts
on a brown woman’s thigh.

The field was cut.
I spat and rested
down my body,
all the new stems
bleeding smell.

So it got to be
so dark.

About Harvey J. Baine

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