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Along the Prairie Path, Behind the Library, You Tell Me What We Cannot Write in Books
David Wright (bio)
for Brett Foster

Beside the tracks, our bony butts parked on this green metal bench,
we laugh and bitch about losses, say damn this bag of stench stapled
to your cancer-belly, while butterflies try to hover themselves into spirits.
Don’t believe I’ve ever wanted to caress another man’s shoulders. Never
had a brother. But, brother, I can see the sharp blades of your back cut
through your flannel shirt. Between commuter trains, you parse ileo,
so we ride that song for a moment towards Troy. The obvious monarchs
keep flitting into light. Look out you say, as a yellow and black spider crawls
its path up my shin. I move my hand from your back, remember how slowly
we walked here and try to say nothing while I flick the dark body away.

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