Plucked from the fire like Shelley’s broiled heart,
an awkward keepsake of the man that was,
so I’d salvage from me the core and cause
of long-gone thrills, but immolate the part
I’m done with—that dandy in his burnt-up shirt,
the drowned, soggy ape who nursed on hurt
and thought too much—and snuff him on the beach.
Who wants a piece of me? It holds no art,
no mojo: this nautilus of meat won’t teach
anyone to sing, or grant a clean start,
new thrills, or bring good luck, like pocketing
a rabbit’s foot. This curiosity:
you’d hold it to your ear, and shake the thing,
and fool yourself that you can hear the sea.
—Peter Spagnuolo
Peter Spagnuolo lives in the north end of Brooklyn, New York, and freelances in a variety of trades.
