Poetry from Patrick Sweeney

she had a true word or two for Master Nansen

the fragile axis of my Kirk Douglas moment

by now, I must've arm-wrestled the man from Cienfuegos over forty times

I'm a gremlin-on-the-wing type guy

hotel aquarium: the carp follow the slow movement of her hands

all day long
between my toes
ants exchanging hydrocarbons

stepping over the guard rail
introducing myself 
to a sycamore tree

in some dimension of spacetime, Robert Mitchum sneers

Rujing refused to wear his brocade robe
on the Great Way
to the Giant Eagle

three faces in the one parmureli

checking the box for morbid introspection

it's the High T'ang in Pittsburgh
sweeping the path
gazing at clouds

toss some cinnabar in that prayer you said you would say for me

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