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Come to the Table

R. Tristan DeWitt

Riffing on the flood,
A pink weld envelops the occasion—heather
Blossoms in the pit of stomach.
A body of work is speaking.
Near the door a sick man picks up trash.
He cannot be the autocrat.

They were stone cold sober now,
Fish in a barrel,
Jacked on the scoria of mormon rain.