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Some flim-flam grand slam, glitchy
as religion, this is, with its chronic

key-and-padlock, hit-and-missy cerebellum,
its sturm and drangish, bum-

rushed, all-thumbed cockalorum. How near,
to use the fizzle of yet another

wet-squibbed metaphor, the tepid fever spike
of a heart-junked hypochondriac

frothing for a blunted, lovestruck glint of moon,
or in a bare austerity squiring a siren

star, rats and blinder moles gathered in a dampish,
lamp-black burrow can,

tittering and stirred like weirder
choirs, rise up mindful and consider fire.

Hailey Leithauser

Antioch Review

Spring 2013

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