Fenton Spear

To Whom It May Concern


The cans of sardines have passed their shelf date

and the cowboy in space feels
shot to death but then unfinished,
being a billion miles removed from whence

the rocket’s final stage took a bow and burned

its own curtain into a trillion-dollar cloud,

granting for the probe to fan out

into something like an apple crate.

Inside, the reincarnation of John Wayne
is standing on one leg and trying to integrate

breath into every movement as he chants
the same syllable, staring out of his fisheye lens

which, more than less, grants the same delusion
of a white picket fence trotting past a carriage horse.


 

 

 

 

 

 

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