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spring 2012



featuring the art of Bill Rogers

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under the toe
spring 2012

under the toe

He was mad running and falling out
There was no way to contain
The radiant armies would not stop marching
Under his smooth yet trembling chest
Under the toe of a deer that hung upon it
And the still stream pushing
Up in him,
In between him,
That cavity pushed out by growing rusty bars
That giant ontological steel pole
A Snakebird sitting in the sun
A dead tire scraped down Buffalo
This history could never be written
There were too many branching roads
But the man looked at his chest
And could see the shaking pads of dirt
The mosses, the hoof-scraped roots
The bark violated, in an appropriate manner
There were no trees here, only a forest, there was no silicon here, only a forest
There was no interaction here, only sadness, there was no despair here only joy
There was a system of eighteen hundred steel poles pushing
Pushing on his tiny litte ribcage and gently, purposely breaking him

Bill Rogers