Westwind

Phillip Lieberman on the Larynx

Austin Beltrand

 

he plucked my Adam’s Apple ripe,

adulating it high enough as to

tear the firmament, the pollution-mingled

faucet pouring itself unconditionally,

and, as if taken aback by the new weight

of its holiness, he lowered it.

 

“eat the rain”, he related.

it was a cross-breed golden delicious

sucked lip-red in places as deep as the tones

it reached. i gulped it even further down,

back to where the seedlings grew.

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