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Michael Cooper

SubInlandia

 

 

My tightrope walker writes up another parking ticket

leaves it under my pillow—a somnambulant revolver

to the temple—the monk’s eyes gouged out by the rose

       —a thimbleful topples an empire—the jester licks

 the pomegranate juice off the table but she is

       handcuffed all the crow’s feathers point

the same direction—inward the sponge tucks

 

its dryness—the waiting nose of a cat—squeeze thru this tight

gap in the door with my whisker—parallel park between

two moving vans.  A ketchup bottle sweats.  A Sheriff

sweats.  Flo’s dinner pants from the dark—the screened in

patio.  I sweat.  The Honeycomb sweats.

                                                                    Somewhere a dinner plate screams

not again!  A horned god rises above the irises and the wheat—I lift the wind

shield wiper—pickup the violation and the envelope—I can’t see her but she is

watching.  And smiles.

 

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