David Tomaloff

D a v i d  T o m a l o f f 

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Photographs of Wounded Statues

the words that we’ve become taste like soda pop ending.

how, by dawn, every lantern has been toppled in the barn.

in summer we twist vines into animals we’ve been in dreams,

each lake connected by a bus line underground.

we blow the dust from forty-fives,

become eighth-notes

spattered over cinder-spit paint.

spiders weave to Coltrane, gather up secrets that we tell.