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Winter Sounds
Neighbors, schmabors, who cares
about neighbors? I didn't
when I was seven. I used to stand
on our porch and pretend I was a wolf.
I'd howl like White Fang.
All our neighbors would cringe
behind their walls, peek through their blinds,
slam doors, growl at their beagles.
But I'd "woo woo" until Mom made
me come, face frosted, to bathe
away my muzzle's grit, my verminy odor
from chomping tiny bones, tiny hearts,
tiny neighbors.
Craw
Caw caw wing ing soot
matched tit by tit
with dun leaves
sprinkled out of trees
milky
sky split moon half hoed
till bird
eyes eye out caw caw street
with a split squirrel shoveled
upend to the woods
sip sip
craw flung
Fr.
Hic, hoc, host, you're leaning on a ghost.
"Innocently," you say, but always
as a Mystery Play:--always inner circles,
worlds of stately purples, vestments
aligned just so, the altar guild in a row.
Think aloud too soon, your bishop will
halve your surplice like a macaroon
and splice his girdle to your pizzle.
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