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“Betty Grable’s boys are going heavenwards,”
they say
cutting their teeth
on necklaces torn from artemisia
the spread-eagled petals
tapered with the hastened edge
of carcano bayonets
squawking
through the radium-pierced
windows
perfumed at the flaking seams
in double aught
pantone grain
but it ain’t for me
never did
drowning in a concerted oasis
ramparted at the knees
by glass pigment ampules
clamped down with the canines
lacerating the gums
cup your hands
for a fleeting drink
judas
quenching proverbial thirsts
by the oil drums
between the cresting wings of
dragonflies
sharpening their mandibles
no more, no more
tepid sensations of divinity
gauges twinkle, needles leap
famished—full bloom
in the choking exhaust
first on the flight-line
twelve warheads
baptized
for overthrown cathedrals
sobriety
flees
from the toppled gallows
over the quaking flack berm
laughing
with a schoolmaster’s switch
flashing, from their emaciated waistband
a half-cocked luger
fix tight
your bleary gaze
pay attention
about-face
dividends spiral
shearing a golden wing
from your empty pocket-watch
it falls, arrested by no talons
no liberties
to kiss
your sordid lover
a nymph
curled about in a daybed
of talcum-octane sigils
tugging at the hems
while the skies churn
stuffed dark with eighty-eight mil
soot
colors drain, bleating
pipe dreams for a barbed missoula
a desecrated turin
dissipate
if there was any
we never did
resting in two palms propped wide
searchlights grow dim
savoring the brush
tacked to the undulating
halftrack
hills.
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