HORMONES Poem by Adam Dickinson

HORMONES



None of the customs officers
can read the receipts new chemists
wave at the border.
Passports gullwing on the counter
as guards ringbill signatures
in stiff-lip service to regs
and rebar. Checkpoints
are the flagships of chalk lines
and compromised eggs.
Nucleotides full of acid rain
slick capital letters
asleep in their holsters
and mess up the paragraph
as a small arms insurgent
of epidermal composition.
A complete sentence is capable
of producing a range of plastic gloves
based on repeated
prepositions between
foreign national, conspicuous consumption,
and pre-emptive refugee.
Cities built on shock
waves of concentric booms
have eastern blocks indistinguishable
from each other,
so that a man who has been drinking
can make his way into any house
and find his children
reading hand sanitizers into the
endocrine glands of dropped calls.
Homonyms hunt in hand creams
looking for out-of-season
mammories in textiled memories
that have driven paper-coated milk cartons
from grocery store shelves.
Unelected surgeries suspend silhouettes
for target practice.
It's pointless to protect
yourself from ricochet.

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