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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