by Joseph Heiland Can’t whistle with game In your mouth Lips stained, tendons drape From your jowls Song of bees like blood And wanting
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by Joseph Heiland You ask me: Do you think it’s going to fall? No, I say. I rub goose bumps from my arm. Candy wine…
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by Joseph Heiland I’m wearing my good jeans. The window is open. All different kinds of people walk on the paths below. They’re heading to…