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Matthew
Porubsky
Mississippi
John Hurt
These farm hands.
Pluck strings
like weeds;
swift, seamless.
Sing sweet, soft dew
refrains cut deep
rows in the field,
this face.
Jean
Paul Marat
My revolution is bath-watered
scabs floating separated,
saturated beside me.
They are me,
disintegrating,
a stagnant film.
Saint John the Revelator
White flash
floods over,
up eyelids,
behind vision.
The future’s white
reflects
on a rounded wall,
shadowless.
Don
Juan
They speak my name
in all ways gentle;
moans, whispers,
breathless. Each one
my slim retreat,
skin-glove press,
anonymous chorus,
plague of faces.
John
Glenn
Cinch black space.
Firefly ice crystals
swirl to ride the pull,
a weightless loop.
In unison I lift,
shine quiet-flash
in reflection.
John
Q. Public
I’m a mass
thought of imagined skin
figured in pose,
cumulative shadow
of you and you.
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