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Mess of Blues

an embattled horizon

and a silk storm of subtle rain at the window

I thought was you

packed up and portable

I’m ready to run

I heard a gun at dawn

a fuckwind shot and screeching

what carries forward is love

—what a mover!

sleek hips and hanging loose

can I come over?

I kiss your punches, embrace your kicks

gan on, beg me to die for you

although your love turned toxic

my breath stops when you hurry past

to lock up the chickens, clutching a fag

from The Dark Months of MayFind more by Tom Pickard at the library

Copyright © 2004 Tom Pickard
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Poems Tom Pickard

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