Editor’s Note: The following poem was written by Locust Review editor Michael Linaweaver.
crushed and rung with dread the ghosts
tremble and ring their hands
in the half-lidded light
mothy catacombs of grocery stores groan
how bitter our throats hurled needlessly
into their pompous afterlives
unadorned melodies
loveless sinewy
depressions
beneath ringed street lamps
gone deaf like screaming orchids
while we count the dead
and the dying
the first casualties have always been ourselves
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