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L e n K u n t z
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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