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February 4, 2019 / barton smock

{ some lost revisions }

{stork blood}

my sister brought a tub of snow inside to dig a baby from and god’s little narc shook a rattle at a fish tank.

are you barn
or missile

silo

sad?

(across town, a silent alarm is pressed by the anonymous smoker of wedding cigarettes

(across town, a mother scrubs at a dinner plate with a clump of hair and tells her boy she is not balding

look: I love your father’s thumbtack moon and I love that bruises recall to us the botched renderings of paw prints.

look: when I read to my son, he tries to fork the fireworks in the back of his head. there is no place where nothing should be.

(and it is so
never suddenly
late

in the dream our longing prepares, memory is a man dying in the ocean and becoming a ghost there.

each a form of angel hazing
are bewildered
church
and stray
field

mother touches the doll with kid gloves that fit. externally, I believe in masks. internally, that a sponge is living off my hand.

I wait for my mother to fall asleep, for my father to carry her upstairs, and for my brothers to go outside

their fingers as horns
on the sides of their heads…

a chalkboard eraser
still strikes me
as useless-

a boat
in the hand
of god

 

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