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

S l o w   G r a v i t y

We were punks dreaming
big crimes, and that last night,
our heads were seasick
with vodka as we dug a crowbar
into a driver’s side door,
blue paint flaking
like confetti tossed at midnight.
Again, no stereo to slip
in our knapsack, no wallet left unattended.
After hearing sirens, we cut through
a dark yard. I filched a lawn chair;
its lightness startled me. We brought it
to the river to destroy; the aluminum
pipes snapped over our knees
like children’s legs. When there was
nothing left to break, we stood dumbly,
waiting for an answer. But I stumbled
and gazed across the river,
the moon’s reflection--
(that welt belt of cream),
and leaned over a stone
to puke. I gripped a piece
of chair tighter, and it was
this one thing that held me.


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