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WHAT A YEAR AGO WAS THE WISH OF SCI-FI

 

Time circling (scurrying)

for one of these towns

 with low hanging green clouds for a sea wall.

Leatherback sea turtle caught in a shrimp trawl

cast longline gill net.

Wax of our expansion

dripping messages from the haunted mansion

of our mind. Captain curving ‘cross

spinal cartilage                 a color of

just when it’s no longer bloody garnet

you throw in some chopped

garlic. The wrong way is the wrong way

until it’s the right way? Lapping

merlot off the mahogany. Making love

to our table arguing with us. Angry sex.

Olive oceans coming back for us

undiscovered wrecks

reassuring as old cars in Havana.

As an unimportant out of work clerk writes

I DID NOT LIKE MY WORK

but I had to pretend and now I don’t.

On our birthday

coming again from some sugary salt of sea

    in a different form

transferred into jellyfish.

The surgeon never waits. The squirrel—omnivorous.

What a year ago was the wish of sci-fi,

our sex organ par excellence,

      is already reality. Taking on the burden.

Eating itself, time, we are this animal.

       Scurrying along trees

of time. Itself. Not a line.

Wax wall. Candles.

Thomas Osatchoff, 36, lives near a waterfall. He teaches.

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