David Dodd Lee
SIX MINUTES
The day eats itself then expires
Moths, dirty people
The animals match their blood to the earth and sky in that place
His face was the size of a pin cushion
Old lambs die young in this country
A JUMPING FLEA?
maybe
'cause I've got this ukulele in a bucket
star light, star bright
I've got a ukulele in a bucket
and this very small songbook
he's a police officer
riding a horse down old Seville Parkway in the dead of summer
the crab grass blossoms in her hair
the smell of heavy sedation
then I think to myself, self
the wagon sits in its own tropical shadow
does the ground see the wood, the wood look down at the ground?
there are many quarters falling out of the moon
and into the galvanized moat-of-the-lute
that cemetery seems like a dream to me now
but only on the real object
do the spokes fly backwards
MANUAL GRAVITY
Scrape of shovel
Sediments of meaning multiplying in the woods
It's noisy down around our ankles
The land groans and shudders with broken bottles
Every time I look around I sink into this deepening of reclamation
Milk of Magnesia
An animal with its eyes sealed off
Dr. Pepper bottle embossed with an image of a clock
the fluids that drip on one’s skin
A twig dragged along the naked back to where the ass flares and begins to reverberate
Complete irrelevance
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