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Beckian Fritz Goldberg


First Love

At night we'd haunt the bleachers' back row. Out there was the center of something, baldness quietly taking hold in the grass. Moths against the stadium light like torn up notes. When the traffic died some nightbirds stuck in citrus along MacDonald A [...]

Satan’s Box

When I come in late, the devil is up writing his sonnet. He's drinking jasmine tea. In search of a word he lifts the top from his Russian box lined with velvet where an io moth is spinning on a pin. He sets aside a child's one-eyed bear, my mother's [...]