Giuseppe Bartoli Poems

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To Each Their Own

I wake up in the middle of the night thinking
in the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was with God, and

The Final Glyph

I pause the song because /
I can't remember any more /

my father being handcuffed and chained by multiple US government agents holding machine guns instead of warrants at five o'clock in the morning / the taste of grade A synthetic supermarket see-through squeeze bottle maple syrup in the shape of a woman on sale in aisle two / how the Florida State Receiver later instructed the armed mercenaries to rummage like rabid badgers through the abode by leaving each room in the shape of an overturned garbage can / the pain caused by autumnal crosswinds carving out facial imperfections like a conduit or close where tears can stagnate / my mother's hysteric bellows as she watched a bunch of unmasked strangers break up twenty years of marriage floorboard by floorboard / the sound of each snowflake committing hara-kiri is murder under the weight of chained tires /

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