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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

Pleiades

Issue 34.1


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