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The Iowa Review - - CONTENTS - Dustin Hell­berg

The rain lisps as if thirsty for some­thing more than it­self. The way the lad­ders hang down from the heli­copters that cir­cle the city, lines of car­toon rain. I am a place so Pa­le­olithic I make out with stones, whis­per to them, The world ends ev­ery day. Bac­te­ria are the mas­ter race. The world is loud. Stick your tongue in my ear.

But there is this woman about to board a flight so rub some of this on the rash for the pain. Even on days that fell out of blos­som, me & you

so cocky we rhymed plains with Spain and rain be­cause days there were we grew so rare and light our selves be­gan to out­num­ber our­selves.

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