⸫
the neophytes get on their knees quick as rain. Fast as calm.
Wrap their lips around exhaust pipes.
⸫
I am unlearning evasion afterall,
where else are you told
not to duck.
⸫
the smoker in the metro
spits on the third-rail and I find myself
disappointed. That nothing—happened.
⸫
when he brakes, it sounds like he’s beating a swan.
⸫
my breath remains garneted, tethered between my lips, in-between checking bank balances like a
crow eating a cherry.
I can have nice. Coffees and bad dinners.
⸫
the mouth of the recently-dead can only be called ajar. Try it.
⸫
process without overhealing into rigidity.
⸫
prune it. With the attention of a lobster
precising the spines of an urchin.
⸫
the pornbots are using Jazz Age phrases.
I sure know how to cut a rug.
⸫
this is what addicts do. Deny their feet the seawater.
of the beluga and his bulging skull.
How he rose from his tank into my palm.
As if he needed my hand.
Marc-Anthony Valle is a Mixed-Black poet from the Pacific Northwest and is an MFA Candidate in poetry (‘25) at Washington University in St. Louis. Marc-Anthony was selected as the runner-up by Monica Ferrell for Tupelo Press’ 2024 Snowbound Chapbook Award. His work has been published in Frozen Sea.
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