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Lewis LaCook

Lewis LaCook
from The Sky

11.

Jean Cocteau likes grapes.  Likes
the thought of grapes, their
form in his mind somehow
congruent with

salves, or the slavish
poetics he tallies: sacs;


blooming along the trellis
in leprous overabundance.
There are no grapes in Northeast
Ohio, at least not

last night, when walking the length
of Cooper Foster Park Road,
Sheffield to Lorain, I
saw a deer staring through live

mists of an empty field.  It was
right across the street from where

my father’s buried.  A road there

can veer off into these stoned
histories, and Jean can’t.

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