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EVERYTHING THAT IS BROKEN UP DANCES
i.
 
 
And what of the insatiable sadness of stepfathers
 
And her smeary mascara that slicks the rain
 
And the daub of red tape infecting a clean health bill
 
And what’s with these singe-effects from the capitol bomb
 
And the dead telephone at the ear of a new generation
 
And when his welcoming smile widened like a crossbow
 
And how a wise oak lets in the new moon’s eye
 
And the motel room with a stubbly kiss
 
And the jailbird in the yard firing rubber bullets
 
And the rotting fence surrounding the national comedy
 
And a white rosette for the bawdy little rich girl
 
And to wake after a decade shouting ‘malady malady!’
 
And the weekday orgasm of the academic coming on a Sunday
 
And how the crucifiers were struck by womb-lightning
 
And if the volcano would chirr just a little
 
And as they played jacks in the matron’s office
 
And but for the sewage a smell of sweet sycamore
 
And the mind’s polka played all through November
 
And the love gone to pot now cooks up the lobster
 
And with the years already shortening as it is