Author: Lois Harrod
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Cento for a Slate Day
Beyond the shale night the rooster jumps up on the windowsill. I raise the machete— East Ridge going to the abattoir. Poetry is not a form but a result: what’s true of oceans is true of labyrinths. “You lie,” he cried, And ran on. Lois Marie Harrod This cento (or poetic…
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I think of Matisse’s goldfish
their reflection weightless on their painted water the way an ink blob might shoulder… … To unlock the rest of this poem, join the Circus! BECOME A MEMBER
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Dreaming in Flatware
I begin with the dinner fork and the salad fork but the forks multiply, the fish fork and this? an oyster fork, are we having oysters? you didn’t tell me we were having oysters, the oyster fork which is the only fork to be placed at the right side of the plate says a voice…