Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-four
Spring 2014
 
Twenty Something
Jeff Tatay

You walk the crescent
moon of a Michigan road,

lunar thresher.

The fabric of fields,
the body of a coyote,

a deer perhaps
floating in the spoon

of a small lake.

Will skeletons rise
to greet you?

Cut a hole in the ice.

About Jeff Tatay

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