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November 16, 2015 / barton smock

(—)placement, final

(—)

licking its wounds it is still an animal.

what does it mourn?

the lack reach of my tongue?

me / me I have

lost my sense of a peopled earth.

(—)

my wordless
my disabled

he was licked
at birth
by a deer

as a writer, the writer
wrote to me
fuck

writers

have you ever
tried to give

a stomachache

to a shadow?

it is not all graph

not all

grief, not worth

one’s salt

to speak
for any
content

that demands
form

(—)

a palm reader
with mouths
to feed
does
my mother’s
nails. I overhear

I love
babies
but god
they live
so long.

my brothers will tell you
I avoid

capitalization

eating
in front of others

threesomes

who was it
asked

from whose memory were you erased?

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