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issue 3





 

a poem by
Miriam Axel-Lute
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The Boring Frontier


With his elbows on the railing
He discharged a grunt from his pelvis
And wept in to a dirty western sock.

A line of tears popped on his dusty boots.
Every muscle in his body contracted.
His lips chapped. His arms

Dangling like western shotguns,
The knees of his pants worn slightly
To the left, in a twang of faded blue heather.

Turning to walk proper with his hips
Popping like southern knuckles, he knew
This deep in Cheyenne, where the dirt hardened his skin
It was unlucky to marry on a Sunday.


Footprints of Painters In the Snow
Look Like Knocked-Out Eyes


Back then painters used to break glass
And around the shards, blood Pollacked.

Stall doors weren't disassembled from hinges
And turned upside down to reveal phone numbers
Aslant, so as when you walked home alone
The garrulous and disarranging whispers
Repeatedly roll the inscriptions on the cusp of your ear.

Then the falling snow, around your shoulders
Expresses time in term of weight.

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