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April 10, 2016 / barton smock



church of intermission. church of the rolled-away church my fever follows. church of it ain’t a baby until it spits. church of the lawnmower left running. of the space you give the grieving horse. church of you when you die in my sleep. of musical suicides. church of the disinfected high chair. of the false bruise. of how to become a balloon in the church of touch.


in the library’s dream, the abortion clinic is no bigger than a fingerprint.


this is me
for a photo
of my father’s
last meal.


to have
the allergic
my mother

for proof
of animal

a mirror for my toys. dirt for my brother.


and we touch to abridge doom in the bed of a headless man. and we struggle to hear a father verbatim. and we ask in a fierce wind a phone booth to please be a fireplace. and a starfish consoles a handprint.

One Comment

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  1. Donna J Snyder / Apr 14 2016 11:31 am

    Reblogged this on poetry from the frontera and commented:
    sui generis here

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