ditch,

the poetry that matters

Michael Labate

Michael Labate lives in Woodbridge, Ontario. His poetry and short fiction have previously appeared in The Hart House Review, The Varsity, and other University of Toronto publications.

A Hangover                       

 
A taxidermied lung dribbles words and sounds
like spat-up gravel.                    A city
cape of sharp birds                    disorients
shadow herds  and splinters  spilt sun.
                                                                                                                                   | An empty elevator says. |
                                    
An air shock tugs a colony of tangled trees.
A   cigarette               distils reality.
A   peeled                                             sky sweats
      slow              snow. A bus ride falls asleep.
                                                                                                                                  | A starved elevator stays. |

A fifth floor telephones a fourth floor to negotiate
    collapse.                         A ceramic              stomach
                                                   stifles   gastric  pangs. 
A locked                                 jaw        drools   icicles.
                                                                                                                                 
| A stuck elevator gapes. |

A stumped spine     stunts chakras.   A  baffled body
    blurts                 a    blistered brain.  A  bird       shard
    boomerangs.  A   coffee                           wins      coffee? 
A clap.                                           cramp. A 
                                                                                                                                 
| A blank elevator waits. |

 

 

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