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Three Poems

Even if he was a bull angel,
a land whale, a million tumblers of blubber,
a horned prevaricator,
it took dirty tricks to get him.


I’ve made the pitcher on my table human again.
Her elegant white neck, belly slightly bloated
with flowers.


The spears, the spires I aspired to be as reaching because what
did you know about tapers.

The Story of the Moon

Once, night, unchallenged, extended its dark grace
across the sky. To the credit of the town, the stars
at night had been enough, though sometimes
the townspeople went about bumping their heads
in sleep.