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Mike Krutel



Today is when I pretend my heart is not

a woman’s face

being drawn down toward

the eventually happened upon chin (it’s not often

that there is a call for such imaginings)

and now I am truly unhappy.


Even this young tree knows!

I stop here to look at its lowest limb,

the only one on the tree that shrivels

into September. I am missing out on everything!


I have more than enough, so that even furniture grows

easily into my wallets, but what a bore, and I feel like without me

somewhere, there is constant rejoicing behind a fence

that is anymore just hinges on a post of wood

yet I cannot get in.


The sunflowers are dying and fat

Labradors frown to take a smooth shit and the women

are all dressed in black sweat suits

for what kind of funeral?


It is easy to eat, but how easy I have forgotten that

we need to hunger. I raise my eyes for every red car that passes,

then look down into my hands and say aloud a red car

will always be coming at me but not always for me.


My legs are a long half-of-the-length of my body

and they’re on a journey for coffee, but everything is so much

and everywhere that I start to believe

the digital time and temperature clock, as if

it must be a small god with a message just for me

about Time and the Variances of Heat.


I have come long enough from where I was not before.

I am an old woman, cold,

hunched over a lawn mower in the gardens of Versailles.

I will never find my way back.



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