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The Seahorse is Double-Sexed,

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and So Am I
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Arielle Greenberg
Tony Trigilio
David Trinidad
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In a dense coterie of seashells, I overheard
your whistle, unruly, jabbered.
Then I realized I could no longer
send my wax-sealed letters to the place
where the horses play with their food.
I've seen them play baseball with
all the losingest teams, the ones named for hosiery,
getting their uniforms dirty, stealing
bases as if they were family heirlooms hidden
beneath the foamy beneath, where Neptune and his
favorite fish sleep deeply like figs
in a poem by D.H. Lawrence, who
reminds me of you, actually, or at least your best
description of his altar, cement mixed with his ashes
to produce a kind of fast-acting
powder we have been schooled to call a 'sentence.'
I prefer the wobbly syntax of a rock pushed up a hill
every day. In the meantime, hard candy is falling
from the roof of my mouth. Without you in town,
I pass the days like they were old, cracking pavement,
like they were figurines of
psychoanalysts, sheep-herders and fascists, lined up on the
chocolate cobblestones and making jokes about us.
Ha, ha, ha. Bang, bang, bang. Now who's laughing?