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Poetry #401
(published September 25, 2008)
by James Keane
Your carcass breathes
to the highest heaven, stretching
a lifetime
all the way back
to one ragged elbow, blinded
to the terminal,
the surrounding
floor, and everyone
whishing past
in thunderous silence
to every open door,
two stunned New York's Finest
to stand, to stare
to wish to the God
who made them
and you
they were never there, praying
it's really only stale
or at worst just pale
down your cocked
from a mouth stuffed
and gagged
against all stares
with no good answers
to anyone's prayers

and a stinking grin

First published in Open Wide

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