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Julia Cohen

The Porch


Sparklers burning the barn down and it’s all smoky on my arm

We piggyback ten kids across the lawn to water the plants and rearrange attachments

We’ve never found a four-leaf clover so keep looking for slave toys near the graveyard

Bury your beard on the porch where first I found it

I admit I wanted you dead so I could mourn properly

There’s a mannequin on the neighbor’s roof and helicopters are mosquitoes

that will never save its life

Please bury me in the beehive it’s hot in here and I’m useless and used to it

The miscellaneous mash of moonshine with the reluctant

Bullfrogs burp the alphabet close by and these are the sacks of insects hatching

Plants and the kids that watch them place larva on the grindstone

Keep saving allowance for the carnival that comes in spring

The fire trees ring the crops and pitchforks stake out like-minded mountains

Bury your beard on the porch where first I found it

What slips through the screen door does not even touch the entrapment







Sorry for the time-tested topics

The sincere explorer is unreachable in the midst of subtle alterations

to the letter’s landscape


When the whistle runs out the soundscape fills with direction no lament could witness

So where are the beautiful trackers when the explorer crushes the compass with his route


The name of my sonance is what instrument I play sleepily

I play with gleaming strings diamond dangled and cross-eyed


I click when my camera functions

In a landslide the superficial glances bury the sincere release


The explorer pricks the soundproof and we come tumbling out of the din

The digging begins the digging will persist and guess what breaks the surface

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