poem index


Jack Ridl

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by this poet

She stares at his players
who turn him into aging wood,
make him sexless as his little finger.
When he tries to talk to her,
his sentences dissolve, the nouns
and verbs all floating mute
into the sky's blue ear. 
He knows why his players 
lift and curl. He sees them 
tightening their belts. Bodies 
that well