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My Autopsy (excerpt)

There is a way

if we want

into everything

I’ll eat the chicken carbonara and you eat the veal, the olives, the small

     and glowing

     loaves of bread

I’ll eat the waiter, the waitress

floating through the candled dark in shiny black slacks

like water at night

The napkins, folded into paper boats, contain invisible Japanese poems

You eat the forks

all the knives, asleep and waiting

on the white tables

What do you love?

I love the way our teeth stay long after we’re gone, hanging on despite
worms or fire

I love our stomachs

turning over

the earth

*

There is a way

if we want

to stay, to leave

Both

My lungs are made out of smoke   ash   sunlight   air

Particles of skin

The invisible floating universe of kisses rising up in a sequined helix
of dust and cinnamon

Breathe in

Breathe out

I smoke

unfiltered Shepheard’s Hotel cigarettes

from a green box, with a dog on the cover, I smoke them

here, and I’ll smoke them

there

from The End of the WestFind it in the library

Copyright © 2009 Michael Dickman
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.

Published in Michael Dickman Poems

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