Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Issue Twenty-one
Winter 2009
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Constellation
Chris Ridenour

       It’s not enough to know dusk falls like failing heartbeats. Sometimes blue holds a note, a leviathan behind the dam that turns in scales innumerable. I looked for red wine and a quiet place to smoke, some voice to call birds from the coffin’s edge. Instead, fence posts pace plains and grasses whispering at moonrise. I can’t be reconciled to this gift unwrapping itself, this jasmine echopale against your sleeping eye, this promise buried in the philosopher’s old catechism that what I wanted and what I received would shine together
                      like Gemini.

About Chris Ridenour

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