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Andrew Morgan

 


LIGHT THROUGH WINDOW ON SCREEN

 

I cannot begin to escape
obligation, the fevered
juice in a lonely laugh.
There is a soiled replica in the attic,
a soundtrack for the method of coins.
But this is not all.
There's a bee which avoids his injections.
He is safe in a shined glass box,
sleeps through the invention of chairs.
We're afraid together.
Hold hands as if he wasn't a bee.
How can one desert such a thing?
This is why we laugh alone
little window
for you are not magical.
You are not able to recreate
even the outline of a tongue.
You are like vaudeville in a match-book,
the stencil a ghost employs for death.
My bee will not trust you.
Will not take your injections.
Will not laugh at the circus you drain from the clouds.
He is a proud bee, a family bee.
He would never consciously neglect.
Would never deceive.
And yet he is only partly reasoned,
only partly noble in his rage.


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Andrew Morgan responds to art, economics, and Country Music not paying him for his poems.