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      August 22, 2012To Myself As a Statue in Central ParkEphraim Scott Sommers

      That cigarette smokes you down,
      And you guzzle the man
      Who perches at the lip of the tunnel

      And unzips the air with his trumpet.
      Then, the men with jackhammers appear
      In coveralls, funeral-black, with dollies, paramedic-red.

      You hope the coming night might blur your sex.
      You watch the wooden teeth of the slave ship
      Gnaw on your ankle and wrist. You watch

      The procession—the straining eighteen-wheelers.
      The boxed-up crane unfolds her arm
      Into the evening, the construction sirens

      Panting orange. Bob Dylan mumbles
      From a parked car of the death
      Of your father. The wrecking ball approaches.

      from #36 - Winter 2011