Three Poems: ‘Albert Wesker’ & ‘Experimental Facility’ & ‘To Piers’
Joseph Spece
The black lake
is a lathe—
more oil now than drink,
her churning solvent
hews the fish
to blocks, no fin.
The black lake
is a lathe—
more oil now than drink,
her churning solvent
hews the fish
to blocks, no fin.
I would hold up the Triforce above my head:
But I, being new, have only this lantern
And this rupee I found in a bush
Tread softly because I only have three hearts
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