Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-seven
Spring 2015
I’ll swan
Patrick Cole

I’ll swan
if you’ll possum while
the lake takes a turn
flinging off the shadows
of trees
who laugh drunk in sunshine
where nothing is out of bounds.

Twilight inspired by others.
Noon dawning on itself.
Free animals now, finally free —
unloved. Chain me please.

I’ll possum now
you swan, or not, or better,
armadillo. Careful, that highway
bleeds rubber. The joke drags its
big ass all across town, sits all night
on your lap
at the neon Laundromat. Waiting. Cycling.

The weather wears a forest for warmth. God
there’s nothing to do in a city. Just grains of
ecstasy stirred into your secret solar winds.
Blow, blow all night on this rocked shore,
possum swan armadillo, fish on kitchen counter
slowly blinking — something winking at you.

About Patrick Cole

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