Victor Clevenger Carrollton, MO poet

Least Bittern Books

Then You Can Call Me An Artist. And Art.

One day
I will get the
nerve up,
or just get
drunk enough
to shed every
layer of skin
I own and then
stand in the
streets beneath
the stars just
to show the
nighttime what
the beaten bones
of a dreamer
really look

After a Long Fight-Night

The mid-summer moisture falls freely
from the morning sky like soft-rotten
peach pits—rotten fruit in full form
disgusts me. The blackbirds that sit on

all the stoplights, and street signs wait
like whores for chewy vittles, as the
moisture slips preened feather tips. And
I just walked seventeen minutes to a brand

new liquor store out of curiosity and rich
rumors of cheap prices, but the door is
locked at ten o’clock. W-T-F? The blackbirds
now snicker and whistle that the drunks wait

like whores too—clever little fucks. I love

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