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K e l l y   F o r d o n


This Is a Man-Fractured Land


The kitchen table is a bunker. 

We’re not raising consciousness. 

We’re hiding underneath. 

The streets are swarming 

with plastic swindlers. 

Roving red-eyes who rock 

our daughters to sleep, 

slip into their ear buds, 

caress their baby faces, 

lull them into dreams of 

the perfect Still life in Bloom. 

Instead, let’s let our eyelids 

drip down our faces 

like pancake batter, pull 

our graying hair out in tufts, 

set our bellies roiling 

like waves on the Pacific; 

reconstruction the last resort 

of some other nitwit brigade. 



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