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Whisking the Skin
ray succre
They were bundled and kicked up across the lot
at eleven, those two stamping finches in overalls,
theologically attached to girls and the ground.
Let’s not romanticize their particulars:
It was crushing hands ripped in coughs, melting
heads made from butter and plunging condoms.
Fightable brays resolved a chance.
The timing of balled hands possessed the air.
A human statement is that I have whittled them
home in the eleventh line.
(c) 2007 by Ray Succre