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JEN TYNES |
A Big Deal Thing
I have touched the little Trevors
and Williamses of the map, uncrumpled
the work we did yesterday and found it
soft and incomplete. Like ball players
palm, like lovers do, scratched jewel
cases stick to their stories and bend
a dollar bill backwards. If I am too explicit
harbor me on someone else's lawn, grass
stain making a power playful. Is astronomer
weed, architectural blade, is the blue-
gray cover of physicians? If I am abetting
"knowing" looks look like fuel.
If you are ready to take
the car, you'll have to back it
out of me.
The Staff
Bark is removed from
its body which shops all
over town for shoulders
of lamb. Lights take a couple
back there. Meat is bright when
it can't cash checks fashioned
out of it, pearly burdens that
bric-a-brac but don't spoil this
for me. Rod is forever buried
to his nose in a couple of jokers,
is called a cigarillo in the lake
area, where lips are inlets. Only
company rips along its tendons
and lies down, a sloping hillside
staff accepts for exercise. Monster-
mashed in the closet together,
bodies with dogs attached to go
along with blood, lust, sticks or
carrots—comfort me when
you cannot break for lunch.
Grass Widow
Full of fiber in a Halloween field
where I stumped and harangued
it to shreds. When it is your own
hand you make a bee-line, bird-
like, into the civilized zone. Back
yard will, if you let it, fill itself
with the open mouth of you, spook
another living thing or two, preclude
ID. When I call upon the second
person in the atonal point-
of-view, you can imagine
our rooms.
Taking Up With You
A sawhorse in the dark side-
yard worries us about death
in several wooden languages.
We fall sunning and stunning into
the hallowed patches below titled
mountains. Here at sea-level, blades
whistle lamely against each
other, fire ants burn in
their own shadows. Lipstick
on the teeth makes a story
run especially long and loose-
ended, though I can't say more
specifically why. The compromise
you make for living inside of
sin sings, people chain themselves
to the rough trunk of your pledge.
Drought
The warp of a second wind
tells me to get in there and dig
a trench out of you; this is not wrong-
headed. Think
of all the prehistoric
people in their fields, judicious
and kind in the way
they choose not
to verbalize our shortcomings.
They have gone so many days
without even the idea
of rain, and we too
do not deliver.
We have the largest bodies
in this fossil bed.
If someone does not make a call
before they close up
shop for the night,
all will settle around a mouth
that does not cry and branches
that cannot leave--
in the morning they will be calling
something long and burdened
by our name.
So Much
Depends
The FBI is big-hearted and blowsy in
the morning, its underwear
crying uncle from the Appalachian clothes-
line. Everything is a wire
when you are waking up,
the bosom rises artificially
and floods the archipelago or
you "levee" it in song.
Dark parameters
of the soul catch
your mother with a stranger, lighter
hurricane lamp.
Is disaster a naturalistic
mnemonic device? Even the fuzz
won't hang around after breakfast, the parking
lot
windows fog because
this is where you live. Nobody left standing
this long could recall
the particulars: a heat set
upon us, a little red
chicken, the vicinity
riveting off.
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