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Kevin Cutrer



A boy is breaking

mating damselflies apart.


The hair-thin legs

struggle against his fingers.


Ripping mate from mate,

he learns nothing


of love-making mid-air,

or what brought iridescence


to descend upon

his finger puckered


in pondwater.

He chances to glance


through window panes

of a mullioned wing,


and what does he see

but a room full of toys,


soft animals he will never touch

never make speak  


in the singsong

of his playtongue.


He will only ever have

their insubstantial plush


in this memory more brittle

than the wing of a dream.


It will remain an ache

the world rubs as it moves him.


A piece on a board

he is the world’s toy now.


Going where taken.

Staying where put down.


Here a boy, there a man.

Everywhere mourning


those button eyes.

Eyes that were not made to see.



From his blue tower

an unhappy analyst looks down

upon happy children

skipping in the liquid argyle

of the fountain’s jets of water.

From his blue tower

he looks down on them,

but when their necks crane upward

they only see

a cloud menagerie,

the startling blue welkin

reflected in the glass of his tower,

and sun flashing off hot steel.

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