John Fitzgerald

PROBE

I used to clone her in balsa wood with eyeball beads and willow leaf blades. I used to whiplash her behind my poll and cast her out to the jaws of the water. We met in a cabbage garden above the dancing midge, with puzzled heads like dozy secrets on slender stalks. Ever wrapping heads in the rustle of my dawn.

She draws Euclid lines in golds and darks and purple hues, the devil’s wings in torpedo blues. The midge echoes all that jazz and swings around the cabbage head a Hustle and the Running Man. Two fingers rise in a slug’s slow crawl, fingers in a rubber glove inside my head. A woman is peeling back the cabbage leaves searching for the slime trails, peeling back the cabbage leaves in the garden of the dragonfly.

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Heads or toes no difference In the turf foot we lean on the other in four and sixes. And we dream the hand dangle long fingered alive in a tick tock of math, the quick kiss of fingertip to limpet shell the blind raking callus across our fetal hump. Lay down in the nightjar’s egg and brush your lips long the palm of the old man before he retreats into the dry peat.

and our midging armies drift in plumes of consciousness.

Out of the membered fog hypotenuse she forms a hob boot shuffle to the shed. Hood and frieze-fold to the slighting breeze feel the pendula of zinc and tin, the bucket shift in a blush of ash that escapes the brim. She kneels waggles at the plinth and unladdered from the ogham clamp our wishbone names come rumbling down.

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