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Influenza XIII/Injection III This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

The buttery moon
melts down the opaque nape
of Mary; another celestial

in need of cerebral Penicillin.

Heresy scours a host. Virtue
converts. White cells try
to baptize. Baptize. Beneath
the inflammation, there leaks
infection--blanched sin,
wheezing candles for those bones,
halitosis in her

words--the buttery moon sours.


The saddened moon curdles. It drips
disheartened rays
light like little syringes. He rings

from moths like mouths, He beckons
through street lamp eyes, ‘Please,
drink once more’.




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