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Stepping Over the Arm
From the flat lung of a gin night, From the place where night breathes, eyes Look out: a thin, pressed mouth, an ear, A small finger's edge can be seen Or not; they can fool us, deny What they are by some wild disguise, It's not a man that lying, Not a someone like you, not me . . . From the gin lungs Of that dark animal who hides-- Or who meant to hide, who had tried But could not crawl to the alley- He unholsters the you fugging Half-words, shoots us, shoots everything Up from night, his lungs, gin.
From The Lime Orchard Woman (New York: Sheep Meadow, 1988). Originally in The Journal of Ethnic Studies.
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