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Lost Men.

 They come to me, fists full of rain,
daisy petals crushed in motorcycle helmets,
faces bewildered, eyes empty wells.
They appear on my doorstep, torsos
dipped in Apollo's gold, bruises
from fastballs and hockey pucks flowering
their bodies, black eyes
wet with creek water, the perfect rock
heavy in their hand.
They show up at the bar, smiles
crooked borders erasing,
remind me of lives they didn't live,
disappear before their favorite songs
shake the jukebox: offerings.
They slide sports cars into close spaces,
scratch vague notes on my windshield, the mirror.
They come to me asking, they come to me begging,
they come to me smelling
of heavy machinery and last night's dreams,
my breath on their neck their first waking thought.
They come to me aching like muscles
shoveling graves, stack beating hearts
like misbehaved woodpiles,
exposed splinters angry.
Their shoulders unpack wishes,
unused parachutes,
heads slowly turn for my answer.
They come to me with muddy hands,
dusty words picked from the side of the road;
arrange their questions on the smooth bar,
edit with calloused fingers, search
this unguarded map, the untethered stars,
for a way to get home.
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Author:Caloro, Lisa
Publication:The Carolina Quarterly
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2019
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