Scott Hartwich

The Obtuse Penis

Someone brought
the hangers out. Another
turned them sword.

Clotblood began
its own conversation
but no one was listening.

We should speak of
pomegranates, or
cherry tomatoes. These

make sense like
good June’s cleaver. Like
pod people hatching.


Sanctuary is a word
orphans use
when they may be eaten.

All around us, evidence
the sky is made of white paper,
falling under

the weight
of its own awkward

The people below
raise their arms and bellow.
They were unready.

Scott Hartwich drives a bus.

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