Nov/Dec 2018 • Vol. XL No. 6 Poetry |

What Spells Trouble

you have since swallowed so much blood, the sailboats rap violently about the docks, and how heavy the gulls’ wings have grown, how sour, sourly beloved, and what shall we then call it, this consternation, a blue funk, some pestilence, which hangs or blooms or paints itself silently within the many courtyards of the body, or across that high court of the skull, what looms like another steamrolled peony, or some pink paper moon.

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