The Queen

January 13, 2012
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Of inferior dirt
they call her thriving
a green queen among the withered weeds
pursuing apples rotted, sun-dried seeds
gourged with possom teeth
and grinning wide as the Atlantic

Her knuckles are bitten raw
bowing letters and postage stamps
to stocking-footed men

If she’s done it once, she’s done it twice before

Then,
how now my mousy, matted friend
smeared black with pitch and maple leaves

The winter is dead, and so are you.





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