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Water implodes in the womb that once called you hijo
and the season, ah, has opened. We are sheared who
once had snarls. We who were known to convey too
happily the abortive practice of Shaker carpenters
now demand, Meet my former girlfriend’s shallow
cups. As she offers you a gorgeous fraction of a deep
well content, no parasite in it, guaranteed. And time
to balk. I announce the painkillers, ounces, ounces, all
crude, designed to be chucked down, swallowed.
Such salve, I say, I like. And at the end, you and I both
dream a fox-filled dream. You like the animals
mammalian, leggy and quadruped, you like my German
are trying to seduce me, we having mastered the snap
relapse and so gone quickly to a wake somewhere
to experience time. Then as we enter time, we salt our
nicks and twist our faces so they can rhyme. And
at night, we can say, in the hour of moon, on the steppes
of sand-glass, Reveal yourselves, all particulars,
we are here to amuse you. And finally spring will
have opened. Time having entered it from behind.
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GARETH LEE took his M.F.A. from Brown University and lives in New Jersey. His work has appeared in The Canary, Columbia Poetry Review, Denver Quarterly, First Intensity, Northwest Review, POOL, and elsewhere. In roughly a year he will matriculate at a reputable M.B.A. program in Europe to study finance, managerial economics, and marketing.
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