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The Holly Fields, The Flutes

The dead follow bliss with hound dog eyes.
cornfields are pawed with their hopes,
rusty legos, found objects in private renown.
Ellipsis is another key by the tomb.
So knitting thimble, so garage sale ring,
oak shiver by the moon’s garlands,
the chaplet cupboard’s slide.
The dead leave holly fields barely touched,
green a cold breakfast whittled
in small bruises. So knitting thimbles,
so mommy’s hearted baseball.
Only a fool stirs up a bodiless brew.
The dead mesmerize passerby
with closure hints, eyes wide shut.
They stand erect, Piggy in Deliverance
cigar shop Indians sturdy for disaster.
Warm brews keep them. They read TV
captions in slow burn, spilling an alphabet
for morbid curators. So knitting thimble,
so hearted mommy’s baseball.
Ellipsis is a trick key in the baritone’s soil.
Their singeing lifeblood crusts in keyholes,
halls in standby wheeze for later.
Their facemasks drool in a striptease ballet,
what’s left staring under the tarp.
So rusty thimble, so grandma’s crockpot,
so the garage sales open later
each spotted noon.

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