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January 21, 2020 / barton smock

from ( diets of the resurrected )

Shaking the breadcrumbs from his pipe, grandfather goes quiet on pointing out the weak spots of passed over anthills. His poetry disappears but not before it buries half a baby in the backyard of a surprised mouse. He is not sure what surprises a mouse. Nearby, I am only here to chew the distance from the foods my kids won’t eat. I have with me a change of clothes and a lunch box named God in three toothaches. The fish aren’t biting, and we say it’s because grief must be getting an x-ray and that it likely looks a ghost praying in the last of its birthday fog.

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