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Candy Man

Merrill Cole


He cannot blame it
for the murder, though the story
clings to what he loves
like cancer. Otherwise the
half-eaten legs would bend
beyond what he can bear, he
never tasting the reward.

Does the crime follow
the compass or the minute
hand? The wrong hole,
he knows, has been filled. This
is how he should live, and
this is how it should end. This is,
the story said, and this and is.

Resolution tightens around
the neck, his mouth no longer
open. Wash the blood off
turning points. But no
twist strangles the disease.

The eye looking back is
a fist that hits nothing. The hand
hides nothing. Blue
lollipops of regret don’t satisfy.

He cannot run without legs.
All lies are made of sugar.
Who believes this is the end?


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