NEW FEATHERS ANTHOLOGY
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Photo by Dimitri Khrustalev-Grigoriev
Syllogistically Yours
Marc Pietrzykowski


​This world has a terrible haircut
and it groans getting out of the car,
therefore, God is a soliloquy
discussing winter’s enjambment of autumn.
 
This world is a box of crayons left on a radiator
and it walks like a duck and talks like a duck,
therefore, God is the smell of oatmeal with butter
after a night dancing in puddles of pink champagne.
 
This world is a mound of used Kleenex
nested atop a gleaming, polished rat’s skull,
therefore, God has fallen asleep
at a booth in the back of the diner.
 
Not even a kiss from a defibrillator will wake her.
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