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The crows.

Frank decided to commit suicide He was sick of his rosy drinker's face in the mirror


and drooping like a basset hound's of his phlegmy voice and his ex-high school gymnast's chest that had rock slid to his belly

sick of is bunged-up $100 cars compression shot popping along like tea kettles of playing bachelor games with women whose minds seemed like mouse-traps or one-way mirrors empty incomprehensible games

that he tired of or lost He drove out into the winter country around Somerville out into the birches and oaks He had taken off his belt when he looked up and saw black forms flitting thought that they would shit on him

after he died that they would dart down and feast in his eyes He started cursing alone in the whiteness shouting blood pumping a short strong Irish man throwing snowballs at the crows

Richard Silberg is Associate Editor of Poetry Flash. His poems have appeared recently in Denver Quarterly and ON THE BUS, and he has finished a manuscript, Riding for What Was Missed.
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Author:Silberg, Richard
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Sep 1, 1993
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