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Kevin Clay


It was one hell of a play, you know.

Hero and heroine

cast to fit a look, a glance, a crabwise

creep after sense and meaning. Poor fools.

Knew not the gist that waited

in the wings; a crab indeed.

Cruel claws, segmented stalk

waving in the ether: shrill signals sent, that

burrow indeed. My carcinomic angel,

riot of cells. A wilding gaggle

drools pavementwise, not replete.

I’ll have your guts for brunch, if you please.

On toast, with marmalade.

Oh, she drowned. Her garments,

fir for an ingénue, to be sure,

float winglike in the waters. Down they

go, and she down with them.

Angel in the mud. No curtain call

for you, dear one. And on the catwalks,

Hamlet smirks in silence.

Win one for the Gipper.