Saturday, September 26, 2009

The Pharmacist

Program for a puppet:

the fly is in business again,

repeats none of the phrases

blamed for its previous

bankruptcy, quivering hulls

on the shore and falling


from the scaffolding of continents.

Raise the distinct hidden volumes

all at once skyward

in their blue folio editions,

the ones you were unable

to return to the book club’s

distant yet sole agent,

even after several cordial

phone calls had led you to believe

in night’s end,

nude Kafka’s plausible flutter

as the bluing

of the preceding day

came under his

impassive scrutiny,

years after the statute,

years after the prescription

that smelled like cheap beer

spilled and congealed

into a leathery coat,

a form of native armor

that spoiled the fables

of anatomy

by answering all their descriptions,

and later refusing to answer,

just as the pharmacist

had during the Great Depression.


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