April 4, 2011 § Leave a comment

By Nick Demske

There is a tree that leans toward lightning.
There is a sand that sweats into glass.
There is a dove in love with cage fighting.
There is a poem, crumpled and trashed.

I compose eulogies for the living.  Jokes
For species that don’t speak laughter.
I write flower print checks and imbalances
That bounce flyer than hearse hydraulics.

“It supports abortion because it wishes its mother
Had had one.”  Instead an ink baptism anoints
The stillborn fetus. Brotherly lover,
Cursèd wielder of incontinent ball points,

I’d say you don’ broke down but this
Would imply you’d left the factory fixed.


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