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Over The Top
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The pounding, the lashing out
like a snake’s tongue lashes out, like a snake
whose prey always ducks down
at exactly the right time.
The venom is lost
but yet is absorbed
as the caterpillar runs down
the leg of the table, and as the angels
hold someone at the moment of
their last singing, singing of the pounding,
singing of the healthy and the unhealthy deep,
singing that there is only the perfect shape or
the fall into restless sleep.
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Copyright © 2008 by Allison Grayhurst
amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst
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First published in “1947, a literary journal”, March 2017
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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
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“Allison Grayhurst intertwines a potent spirituality throughout her work so that each poem is not simply a statement or observation, but a revelation that demands the reader’s personal involvement. Grayhurst’s…
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