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This Right Here.

 In restricted access, in lockdowns, with a price on the goods, the
        shrouded, wearing trash cans for boots, the spring, that
won't testify, the cunning like a worm in the guts of its own
stupidity, braced against the seawall, the spring, and why would I say
this, or better, let me tell you about the wildwood, that slumped
       tick infested teeming with bugs, the stinking ocean sloshing onto
the rusticated shore, you notice this in springtime like a calculation
continually misfiring, like a scrap of paper left on the table
explaining the shootout, the dishonor at dawn,
       and something bangs against me, I am overmatched by a morning
with rain, by the compressors the catafalques groaning, you say
it's springtime and the birds, troubled with psychosis "their
underarms crawling with lice," press northward,
       compelled by a remarkable idiocy, uninvented, hauling their
bodies through the standard acidity and friendlessness into dune shadows
like the breath of satire, it's springtime and runners are expected
from the gravediggers with an appeal for more shovels, and the vines
crawl like murdered drunks crawling in the dreams of children, fiddling
with the locks. 
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Title Annotation:four poems
Author:Smith, Charlie
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jul 1, 2014
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