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February 28, 2018 / barton smock

span musics

she joked
I remember
that the jelly
on her stomach
was the blood
of loneliness

and there he was
in all his
not yetness
the bent chuckle
of our boy

his brain, even then
thieving
the loss, his muscle, godsmoke-

he’s eight, now, and my palms
hum
if I hold him
too long
but clarity
is a weeping
spine, a deep

weapon

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