clitta-clat king of the bucket

I smell crawdad in mud-glow,
fish-tang from a hidey-hole;
zinc-y water-rot aroma,
stink of joy to a barefoot boy,
slipfinger boy in wet dungarees.
Grab a blue shell, wave a snip-claw,
mechanical claw, bend-back claw,
to trim a trophy off curly thumb—
but giddy drop and he becomes
the clitta-clat king of the bucket.
I will not survive the end of this poem
psilocybin syllable
 

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Friday, November 24, 2017

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fine art prints
writing by Greg Correll