Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-two
Summer 2013
Andrew Aulino

There are eight tablets in all,
each eight milligrams.
I chew them up in a booth,
wash the taste out
with overmilky coffee.
Then the long blocks home,

a barred window, mute engine,

patient birds around the bridge

A wan

pleasure follows,
slow body, quiet blood.
The nose runs;
chill sweat settles on the face.

Getting close,
the first neighbors out start as
slag-hued shades of fog.

They smile and nod and
turn dim again in a few steps,
not rain, not quite flesh.
Still slow, we continue

on an Asphodel Meadow
that extends inside us as we cross it.

About Andrew Aulino

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