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Peter Burzynski 





     Maundy Ceremony





My dearest, Dinosaur, push out breath.

Staple your chest. Twice filter air into lung.


Smoulder like a chimney with a hole ash to ash.

I slept. Each grainy piece of you, a signal


drawing down a neatly unbuckled breast.

I sang gravity.  Balance an armadillo


with steel skin often colored grey

under the pre-dawn morning’s breath. I sighed.


Your thighs baked and chapped, strained

like a tie pulled too thin. I ate greasy treats.


You forage for the predictably scattered

among evening dews.  Hungry fingered


claws circle around to feel cartilage at each bend.

Sewage or flesh? Recycle with bites. Undress.






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