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If This Poem Were Hannibal Lecter would it whisper like its namesake sotto voce so that you must lean forward towards the page to its conceit, only to pull back with such force, that when your chair capsizes you land and snap your spine? Maybe, just maybe it would take an interest in you and ask you about that time when you were five and smirk as you describe the sound your sister's tibia made as it fractured under your added weight after you pushed her out of the apple tree. Most likely, it would get up from the night-table where you left the poem unattended and steal down the stairs into the bathroom as you bathed, lop off your ear with carotid incision, prepare to eat it with some fava beans cooked in a skillet and inform you as you convulsed that you lost your sense of the poetic vein.
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