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Friday, April 28, 2017


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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