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When All Is Said by Michael Largo
published in Volume 6, Issue 2 on June 1st, 1999

This house is a crow
that picks at something in the grass.

We are inside, in its stomach.
We climb its ribs with a candle
that gets blown out when we
reach the lungs.

Sent tumbling
                            backwards.

The sound of tractors
coughing up the morning dampness
into the sky which is a clean
white handkerchief.

Buckets with rusted bottoms
pitchfork and shovels lean against
the corner
smoking thin splinters.

You tell me you like living here.

I look at my hands.
I have nothing to say.

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