[ToC]

 

LODE

J. A. Gaye

At the butcher the butcher cuts with steel.          
A still life-like apple falls in fours.

I purchase in flanks and relish
In the distant chivalry of letting the elderly pass.

Down the main the jays rank like rooks
On power lines. Autos with fins.

I mercury onward, humming
Past the hospital where you drip

In your juices—Eight Days A Week.
I am clutching the shifter. Frightless

Birds. Whole intersections. A little wave
And a passing on. A blink to blink,

While in the kitchen I make my steaks.
Potatoes with eyes that spear like a virus.

 

 

 

 


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Notes circumjacent: "Sabbatha George," "Polarian," "Scarborough Fair," "Iovian," "418," & "Whatso Fuck Then" [sic]. Sont: Dear Sabbatha, Lily Liid, The Graduate, School of Seven Bells, [UNKNOWN], [UNKNOWN]. NB: George Harrison; & Ty: which is to say, "...we call it Lisbon. It is Spain."