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Bayou Baby.


   The long and narrow bridge that spans the wide oval lake
   of your life is made from the dust of men's skulls delicately
   melded by last spring's meadow dew. It strains into form by
   the rudely harsh, pressing bulk of the vehicles on its surface.

   The calm, warm, lapping water beneath the bridge is an
   undulating skin membrane that is always thinking. This
   membrane, however, has no memory.

   Beneath the membrane is a monochromatic city of aquamarine
   little houses with aquamarine women whose pussies hide the
   color of red, yellow-speckled apples.

   Your mouth waters in ravenous fear and anticipation of
   forgetting yourself on either side of the lake.
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Author:Toscano, Rodrigo
Publication:Colorado Review: A Journal of Contemporary Literature
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jun 22, 2013
Previous Article:Sketch #7.
Next Article:From "Winter: Aphorisms".

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