Reflecting on the Deaths of Close-Fars

by Louis Lamanna

This dry street fishes yawns within my throat,
fingering the black cavern
for only boots and locks.
Now wide open,
pre-crunchies cascade into my mouth-
I bite to savor but they are dry

and crack like orange joints,
the menacing chatter of imminence,
or maracas:

snap snap click clack
tip tip tap
tip click click
snap.
Snails set off beneath me,
sluggish, yet no more heartless than those who do not cry
at falling leaves. Just as embers cackle
cackle cackle
snap.

Am I the sinner who embraces the fall,
beckons the lucid frost
and does not shed in hopes of spring?
Does not the winter spread its lips and smile
at adaptation?

I offer this to you for I no longer know.

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Filed under Issue 2, Poetry

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