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Lost Among the Hours
Alan Britt

GIANT MANUSCRIPTS

Some poetry manuscripts
are monster hurricanes
gripping the entire state
of Florida,
eerie eyes focused on West Palm,
Stuart and Ft. Pierce.

It just so happens
I dated a girl
from the Port St. Lucie corridor—
goldfinches igniting
quartz blue eyes—
but I digress.

These manuscripts, like elephants
spraying one another,
grow heavier and heavier,
down in our basements,
night after night.

Someday, with proper cultivation,
they could resemble
sperm whales 2 miles deep
trolling
their favorite meal,
the giant squid,
that elusive, mythical creature
whose 50-foot tentacles
occasionally litter
our shores of dementia.

 
 
 
 

 

 
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