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Philip Byron Oakes

 

 

Ruffles

 

plausibly indelicate in anchoring flighty prophets
of progress to the realization the water is cold
this time of year

a toe ventured elsewhere in footsteps taken
back from the brink of changing clothes to suit
the better half of being naked for all but the
bright eyed to see

the stanchions wilting under the weight of a
roof prescribing an avenue to read the sky as
a lie of the living inward where the spaces are
vast between the who and who the gardener
thinks he is


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Philip Byron Oakes responds to art, economics, and Country Music not paying him for his poems.