Funeral Pyre

Editor back-issues, poetry

Wooden poets buoy above the lawn on knees carved of earth and splintered words,   spitting fire to grave. They ember on in true pyrrhic fashion, flutter and burn.   Women with lips like peach pits plant coals under their tongues and lay with palms agape,   effigies in flesh. Your bones shiver and roll into velvet sky, the living…

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