Logan Fry

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LAWNCHAIR MEADOW TINT EXEGESIS

As nimbus slump cloud forgeries,
the canopy descends steeped in ’55
hot rod motor oil, venom too. The gale
affronts. How the phantom self thrusts
up prophecy, how the atmosphere

aborts it. A lesson meadow-derived
tohalter that vapor, content the loin
with enclosure, sometimes just sit
and recognize how distance gallops
into itself, continual. How you were

its origin. The ratbit plastic lawnchair
anchors each gearsprung epiphany.
Barometric gestures are obscene,
each elemental toxin is a going away.
The wind never stales. The wind

has always stung. Exposed in the lattice
still you sit. Fumes whorl and fester
and haze a luscious vision. Thus vision
saddles distance, gallops ever off.
Sit easy; I’m gunning for your meadow.

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THE BANK HEADQUARTERS RUBS ITS BEARD

There’s a reason suits congregate to the building’s scalp.
Whole economies rubbing their last nickels together
to engulf a single damsel.
Anyone would be distressed. Yet that bicyclist
has his beard caught in the spokes
and his face stretches into a pageant.
One must carve earth down to the nub
to construct what will reach farthest from it.
No use. Were dear leader to come out, simply, with it,
he’d find none begrudge a penis its inflating with blood.
That stuff is not democratic water.
“Everything that rises must converge”
enters the elevator, ascends. The phrase decays
among its cube of glassed and falsening air.

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