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From a Mouth in California

Shorts and a t-shirt. Not even

nothing’s bitten into you.

And to think they call this lack

of shrapnel “fall.”

Last night was all corners; this morning

sports a fumbled-up glow.

With your marrowy kilter, you’ve

believed into this weather, grown

to hate some certain turns and times

of day, but you’re mostly okay:

a more plausible me, a less

unthinkable pile of holes.

Watch the world and it’ll crack.

You’ll see star dirt, sure, but let the sun

not be a lesson. There’s a bruise at the end

of the light still hurts from way back.

There’s this disease runs from “quit-

to-keep-staying” to “pressed-

for-safekeeping” and yes,

you can recycle it.

The people bells are different from

the God bells, but how?

The hell’s a ghost before it gets to us?

You are only not thinking out loud now.

from A Mouth in CaliforniaFind more by Graham Foust at the library

Copyright © 2009 Graham Foust
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Graham Foust Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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