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Archive for March 24th, 2010

Cell

By Bob Phillips

at the edge where the dogs hold
leashed against the bars, strain
by the membrane of sleeplessness
practice calesthentic curl-ups, void at last
shit first warm, then clammy
then cold as concrete floors

in my place the laughing devil
feints my privates, so called, I curl,
hold up a name of God, ward warden

led on a leash of lampcord, I testify
through the wires on my fingers
perform for master, tiny camera

my guide a burning bush, wick
of the righteous, stammers and stumbles
visited upon the depraved, plausible, denial

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