Julie Doxsee
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She Piles One Long Morning On Her Belly







Leaning down to tell you you said my skull was my skull & paused

once we were seeds & acorns & a foursome

I found. Birds too: he never took his monkey arm off

her ear: he lifted two weeks from their hooks &

found birds closer to leather.









You Wouldn't Flush Your Skull







One bootlegger disappeared under

safari pants, reached for a handful of

Jupiter, soaking from the smell of

Jupiter. Beer was a handful of beer.

Sixty pairs of almonds throats finished.

The swallows they were full of said Oh,

pardonne moi, when his shirt tucked

one tear into our godless eye.










You Will Brighten In a Smaller Village with a Question







How do you know the café went silent

I said. The moon always boring holes

from behind. I lived in the woods for it &

paused to get ringworm from his glass.

The nephew turned back too, cooked it to leather.

Here was the seat of his monkey arm around her hand.

I found birds too. And squeezed. I made it up. I said.

Meat vendors looked up from the same fingernail cradle. Oui.

The kitten walked along.










Women Had Gouged the Smell of the Entire Crowd







His hat was a snowmobile path.

He could feel the path parked on by actual cars.

He sprinkled it with ashes and offered it.

He followed the chimney, the entire middle of the smell of snow.

He said Next to men we are salt water.

He opened one of the wings of the crow.









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