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Shakespeare's Monkeys

Infinite Monkeys. Infinite Typewriters.

More in Poetry

monsoon season

monsoon season

the boy from Texas
cleaned the gun
and we patrolled long away.

two ridge lines
too far.
heard noise in the bush
and kept so quiet.

"maybe it's rock apes,"
someone lipped.
I thumbed the safety off
and unwound
three hundred bullets
so they would feed
straight.


no one knew then
how impossible
it would be to go home
and rest.

 

that's me in the right foreground, behind the machine gunthat's me in the right foreground, behind the machine gun
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