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Friday, April 28, 2017

August

a punched-out laborer drags
his steel toes and down-holed soles


August 2 o’clock he dreams
of an ostrich-assed dancer


with a three-olive grin,
and she buttons


his shirt to the scruff


***


at home, dozing in the maw
of a gapped-tooth puzzle, he suspects


that tonight he will make his
time-machine and hide it


from his wife, the future,
he can’t convince her


will be worth this wrench, this knob
twisting towards a glimpse


of bird-kin evolved—a distant granddaughter
curiously perched on the Gonnus Mons
she blinks away at a flickering blue dot
sings with a whistle, and boom


it’s gone,    
she moves on

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