Tuesday, October 19, 2004

NEW! Jennifer Tynes poem

Jennifer Tynes


No one traveling through the country

eats at the side of the road. A blanket demeans

a body with small stains that carry across the lawn.

It doesn’t scream anything in particular

when I buy condoms from the machine. In a very primitive way

we knew what was coming. After our excursion through

the Alleghenies, indelicate dreamlife in which cancers

grind each other in the wash.

Growing out of the practice of gathering long tables

to my chest, my gratitude for the idea that attaches itself

to the animal is no longer bore out

by any solid article. I take your hand.

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