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S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas.
Pubs in/coming from Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, La Piccioletta Barca, 8 Poems, and a few others.


Trigger Warning

Describe us in eternity, Eros of those running beasts Death dreamt!
That seek lucidity to see the bottom of this lake where your kin’s debris has settled:
I will tell you of women in their jars as I-ing dust;
I will tell you of man as bag,
A sack to catch the rain:
Eternity’s a dream when you are Dirt.
You are either Rain or Rock after endless rain.

Plagues, pain, disarray, Ghosts that trek munificent or lounge
Within your blood and malignant shade.
Blights, rots, decrepitation that communions pore in branches
Which owls sunder on their landing.

We love dark and oust the Dark of name,
A singing happy Apollonian singing happy
Our dark, dark, dark, dark hymn.

Death plates our names knowing Time will yield us vacant upon his door
Lest we teethe our genius with some consequence in the trees.

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