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James Grinwis

At the town dump,
a girl has lifted her dress
for a thick, blurred-apart man.
He pushes her onto a moldy mat
beside a rusted-out water heater.
By the pond, a pile of dead piranha
has washed ashore. A boy
rips out a jaw and straps it
with fishing line to an unhewn stick.
A tree has fallen onto the cable
television company. The streets
are full of people no one would
expect, in the manner of streets.
Bored. Happy. Looking
up and down, figuring out
who to press or whom to let press.
In a window covered
by smudged sunlight,
a naked woman with fat breasts
is cutting the tentacles off
a boiled octopus. Under a tree,
it’s raining. A lost toddler
is clutching a stuffed dog
to his body and he is soaked
and weeping quietly. A siren
far from any road
twirls like a kicked fruitcake.

James Grinwis

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Author Discusses Poems