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Craw

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Split the boy       —his thorax, throat
Pierce-peel the craw:

A jag-crystalled crust      —his black scoria, slag
(not Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled)

What no gizzard ground (could hope to grind)
What would not mesh
What would not smelt

Embedded undigested there in meat

Source: Poetry (April 2011)

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This poem originally appeared in the April 2011 issue of Poetry magazine

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Craw

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