Ambrosial Hemlock
Justin Boening

Am I to be the next Olympian
backwoods boy,
to choke, in the hoarding worship

of a vial
rivering through the dust fields
of the throat,

for even a temporary pardon
from the most quiet linen
oblivion of its kind, shameless

as a spider
spinning tin
under the carnal lamp baking the terrarium?

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