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Swollen With Sun

The dog can poem, silly dance, raisin’s toy sinner
with a top to spin around in.  The dog can’t help her fur
for wanting more, while Coffin Joe and Bradley Steptoe
fall out of fatal sync.  They three arm ghost figurines

In whiter shoes to mix the room’s soup up with, lapping cold
air bruises waves of lick and skin.  Number one daughter,
everyone is now slightly freaked apart.  But as previously
intercepted, there’s nothing out there I want
without a firm sense of hypothesis and telltale traffic light stars.

Ragged glassy bits will gather; cherry random hearts coalesce,
summer seedless blessed.  We spit the pit, or suck to toothless.
It hurts to be the heavy ounce, but we must complete
the catalogs.  Please wrap my cabeza in red red wool
and send me out among them.  O little poverty, my own, my nest.

This poem appears in the 2007 Anthology
View all poems by Amy King