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Hidebound; Wax Fruit by Michael Igoe


These darkened bones

of half broken horses.

Arguing at a gallop

soon they became

drenched in lather.

Making their way

through a canyon,

in rapid summers.

Some without feed.

other ones blinded.

Desperate to invent,

newfangled cursing.

Favored by legends,

those read in braille.

Wax Fruit

Time and place measured

by the spin of a pinwheel.

Hoping one day,

for equal gains

of willful respect.

For passage entries,

from obscure bibles.

Looking further,

but not finding,

the soft contour

of a rolling eye.

I was seated at the table, had cake from a funeral,

I bit deep into fake fruit.


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