“for the marathon dead and wounded,” James Stotts


mid april
passing manchester
the cherries have
no stones
washing their wings
in the river
not nearly
as material as
those bald
merrimack pylons
i am the maculate
of bestial capital
and care
barely thirty
but i can already
feel the worms
between my legs
the black mold
to my bones
and in my memory
it was
the same hour
as the cherries
the finish line
burst into flower


Also by James Stotts
Poems in Little Star #1 (2010) and Little Star #2 (2011)
Poems in Little Star Weekly #3
Since, O’er Books, order here


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