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by Marta T. Coppola

The word has a body.
Sounds circulate in arterial
thought. Its composition
fluid, penned straight
through the ventricles.

Its tongue is a live wire
conducting passage through
ghetto phrases re-inspired.

This heart is co-regent.
No muse denied. Her
temple and grace notes
merge side-by-side.

Skinned borders expel
the rough and spatulate.
Raw cheeks, blushed, expose
the verbose and/or quaint.

And in deep repose
the bowels un-noosed
the ah’s and oh’s.

And the sixth sense
is a gambler burned
in effigy.
What not and not what
to expect. You see?

Copyright © 2009 by Marta T. Coppola

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