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L e n   K u n t z


Nobody Wins


Across state they are shooting at the moon.

I’m never sure who is right and who is wrong

because I tend to crumple when unfairly ambushed.


My dad’s clan were strong people.

Calluses like mitts. Eyes that could cut cords of wood.


When I fell in love the first time

my sister said, “I should slap your face.”


All my choices have come with warning labels lately.

There could be a refuge for people who dance hard,

but I’ll never know.


In some countries monkey brains is a delicacy.

Here, we stiff-arm cows while

hillbillies shoot down the moon

just to see whose side it’s on.

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