Peter Jay Shippy
A Flower of the Proletariat
The sudden April flurries thicken my tongue.
and steals red roses from the farmer’s gravestone
door to door. He wears a lei of garlic. He wants us
you find on a remote island—cut off from par evolution—
an eye in the back of his head, a sweet tenor voice.
The truck’s yellow lights diagnose my dark living room.
When I finally surf back to the cartoon, the rooster
into the sea and paddles so fast his wings are a smear.
and insults. It seems that water travel is forbidden
Last week I found a bee holding slow to a Venetian blind.
I put the bee inside my mouth and place our heads under
The truck stops to let the tide lap its plow, its headlights
Peter Jay Shippy is the author of two books of poems, Thieves’ Latin (Univ. of Iowa Press) and Alphaville (BlazeVOX Books). Newer poems can be found in The American Poetry Review, Harvard Review, and Jacket, among others. He teaches at Emerson College in Boston. His website: www.peterjayshippy.com
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