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March 18, 2017 / barton smock

trove (edit, 2012}

snow, we let it fall. our cigarettes nod off. ear shaped mouths fill with cake. our mothers open windows, and worry. lovers leave a bed, unmade, on the moon. a stolen truck swerves to miss a charging bike. a young boy, mid angel, says he can feel the blood in his body. he says it to a girl and she punches him. I wish to remove the clothes of every figure we drew as children. a blind boy with acne makes light of god and god’s face. we call the boatman’s wife from different hotel rooms. our sisters refuse towels and we put our hands in and out of a glove. our uncle

we can hear him pissing on a broken lawnmower. we pass our father and damn him for taking, already, the cat’s frozen head from the madman’s shovel.


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