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The Temple of Many Hands by Christopher Locke < back  : index  :  next >   

S t i l l   L i f e,   S o m e   P a r t s   w i t h   M o t i o n

Picked-apart, minor tufts
of dawn glower toward
the sun, (its lapdog),
incorrigible along the earth’s
spine―a horizon void of
options; a brown filament
rushing in opposite directions
until a single house crumbed
in tar paper. Inside, three beds
disappear three dreamers. But
now, the stink of hay scorches
their eyelids apart: sun, memory,
and heat swoop them back into
their shoes, shirts whimpered
against their backs, entire
hymnals of regret, a nation
of words that all spell
one misery, pushing
the door open with
I can’t,
    I can’t,
       I can’t.


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