Cento from March 2009 Boxcar Poetry Review

A hive living in the ribcage of a raccoon

deeper than what our fathers' called

"our lips on his fingertips"

adds up all of what you are most afraid of.

Lord, take what you've come for.

We needed the dramatic beginning.

It was a nice touch, it was, to erase

how to retreat. I want nothing to do with it.

I've driven more nails into the leaning porch

unnamed. Unnoticed, more is coming. It snows.

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