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Famous Reporter # 32
 

STUART COOKE

 

               Stolen Archivist

 

Poetry won’t just
come out; it sticks
and you need to prise it gently
from skin
 
as if you were rain falling
on withering rock
as if you were the stolen archivist
trapped in tides of submerge and evaluate
- articulate –
the fat crop
of submission
 
This is to say, It’s wonderful
that I love you, and to hear
in response, ______ - that’s
nothing, that’s infinite
greed
consuming and I’ve lost. The sun,
the one sustaining, it’s a metaphor
for consumption
and the hand opens, fingers
rain out.
I put them deep into alliteration
 
and death is a translation
of the forgotten word. A heart beats
against a bony cage: we have – wait
for it –
a cardiac arrest.
If this is pursuit then
please, I don’t need time for the past.

 

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