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Invocation, and a Sort of Lullaby


Bills unpaid, and half the rent, the baby
Pleistocene with borrowed heat,
I sing. No one coaxes

or demurs. Empty fail the savage pines,
their stock of seed already spent.
Three finches huddle in the planter.


Go to sleep, my little dinosaur,
with no accounts or credits. Sleep,
while sleep alone is due. Soon

a frozen blanket will be pulled,
and all the local rodents will descend—
a fall election, and the virgin birth

again. My little five-eighths Jew,
such doings mean as much to you
as Keno to a coelacanth. Sleep.

If I could strip my postures bare,
or stripe my knees to charm
obsequious poetry, I'd sing

a wiser, more distinguished song.
My little mastodon, stay warm.
The agencies are everywhere, and cannot care.

Jonathan Weinert


Issue 34.1

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