Country Music
an online journal of poetry
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Peter Davis

 


How It Happens


When I settle into myself
it's like a piano, or at least
the keys being pushed
(like something).
There is the volume control
for the TV and the hat
that is static.
This static hat sits here and then
shuffles away, leaving little
dung.
Hung in the hall, on hooks of
gold, hardly dripping
any sweat, I see the prisoners
that I wasn't even thinking about.
I'm not even thinking about
them now, instead
I'm concentrating on
a bullet that isn't acting like a
bullet. No, it's a mullet.
No, the word "poultry," or
"poetry." No, it's not even that.
I'm talking about sailing
science and wings
spread through the teeth
of a lisper. I mean, the wind.
No, Tina, I mean the
transparent fist.

 

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