By: Michael Igoe

Few gentle touches,
chosen from infants
are a will to imperil.
Caught up in a stage,
of swirling advances
to forgive the mess
in cries and wailing.
They are all daubed
in various warpaints.
Laying in possession
of an outback space
beside a muddy river.
Vapors recorded,
will come and go.
They beseech you,
to acquire warpaint.
They’ll get broken,
then become clean.
They aimed arrows,
to cure their disease.

Michael Igoe, city boy, neurodiverse, Chicago now Boston. Numerous works appear in journals online and in print. Recents: featherpenblog.org, Spare Change News (Cambridge, MA), subliunaryreview.com. Anthologies: Avalanches in Poetry, The Poets of 2020 (Fevers of the Mind Press) @ amazon.com. National Library of Poetry Editor’s Choice Award 1997. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the night.

Find Michael @MichaelIgoe5 on Twitter and @michael.igoe.397 on Instagram.

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