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Clade Song 2

backsliding
 
 
trying to kill a fruit fly on my keyboard, i wrote:

all we like sheep have gone astray. i took this as

a sign the fruit fly was sent to validate why they

accused me in alabama – tallassee funeral home,

cold mamaw on display: you done lost the brogue.

maybe that’s how all those robins fell on my lawn.

i’m speaking in a tongue bound to get me in loads

of trouble. lost the passage i mean, not the other.



still, scripture tries to worry me: a spooky head

to step on to keep me in bed. or rust scraped

on my toast for more iron. but this is my captain

speaking. might’ve been nuptial flight of a queen,

not rough square root of laboratory me. or some

cropped luster: not oracle. not apostle. not ghost.


in case of fire, spill or release

news hour

 
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Ken Taylor Ken Taylor lives in North Carolina. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Hambone, VOLT, The Offending Adam, 3:AM Magazine, Verse Daily, elimae, EOAGH, MiPOesias,The Chattahoochee Review, Southword, The Carolina Quarterly, Gigantic Sequins and others. His chapbook first the trees, now this is forthcoming from Three Count Pour.