No More Nostalgic Poems
  Ryan Pratt

Might be a moon
amidst    the downtown square
black-eyed,
but its sidewalks cliff
at streetlights

I don’t care
between    ghoul-houses
what’s unseen:
photographs cake curbs,
leafing the veil;
bare synopsis
of a happening.

What sentimentalist
scattered    and
what snake collects
into dripping cart
such a public curse

a case for repentance.
Surname by,
first name poems;
a subject    in a place
in a chemical bath.

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