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John Parras: Sky

May 13, 2011 by PBQ

The heart is a knot dark in pine.

My fingertips are stained pecan.

The backs of my hands itch.

There is nothing worth bombing.

Sawdust powders my clothes, rises

aloft, pixie dust in staid suburbia.

We spent the whole day cleaning the garage.

From here I can smell Afghanistan.

What good are the old forms? You

haven’t sucked my tongue in a month

or more. I trail grass clippings

through the clean rooms. The kids spy a rat

scuttling towards our unused writing

desk. The papers are unscribbled.

Every two minutes another flight makes its way to Newark

through a sky unleveled and dishonest as our last kiss.

Filed Under: Contributors 75, Issue 75, Poetry, Poetry 75 Tagged With: Contributors 75, John Parras, Poetry, Poetry 75

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