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Dane Holt: a poem

Precious Little Mystery

I'm partnered with Leroux.

Bad clam, he's locked himself

behind his frosted pain. My job

is to stand in the kitchenette,

boil and peel eggs when he can't sleep.

"None of this will bring her back",

is all I say, but I hit my cue.

His carpet's like dry skin.

Despite everything, I do not love him

nor the theories that raise themselves

then cancel themselves out;

the plots that revolve around him

in increasingly vague circles.

He'll damn the grey sky

of morality before long,

and I'll act surprised

and concerned about his drinking

and the Venus flytrap on the widowsill.

The sleek, outmoded telephone

doesn't ring without demands.

The past sounds like a woman

laughing somewhere back East.

She's getting the joke

five years, ten years too late.

Dane Holt’s poems have been published in Poetry Ireland Review, The Tangerine, The White Review, and HU.


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