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The deer leap
into the wrist thin
grass grown tall.

Gone, without
evidence, palmed
as the rays knock

the keyholes. The men
set targets when
there’s nothing to shoot

at: doors, window- 
panes, junk cars. 
From the clear they husk

shells through plywood,
crack gossamer, riddle
steel, or miss 

and hear nothing
after the recoil,
like talking to god.

Andres Cerpa was raised in Staten Island, New York. He spent many of his childhood summers living with his grandparents in Puerto Rico. He received his B.A. in English Literature from the University of Delaware. He has been the recipient of an American Academy of Poets Prize (2010), the Elda Wollaeger Gregory Prize (2010), and the Thomas W. Molyneux Award (2011) for his publications in Caesura Literary and Art Annual. He is currently an M.F.A. candidate studying poetry at Rutgers University Newark, where he also teaches.




 


1. The first time I saw someone shoot a gun, it was aimed at the sky.
2. I always thought prayer was supposed to be a conversation.





 





  


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