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If This Poem Were Hannibal LecterTo Nick Bruno's next piece


He stepped past the police cordon,
put on the mandatory surgical gloves,
pulled out his notepad and pen
and considered why, 
they had asked a poet 
to visit the scene of a crime.
The force of the explosion had strewn
about human parts. The cadaver's pride 
was on the commode. His vanity 
hung by the mirror. The libido sat
exposed on the loveseat. Gobbets of guilt, 
were hidden in denial behind the door.
But most telling, his stupidity 
was splattered on the wall 
behind the writing desk in particles 
of dura mater and blood. And there 
in front of the corpse was the culprit: 
a journal of love poems in the victim's handwriting.

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