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by Joe Albanese
The clambake sets aroma in motion as
color-filled glasses and
laughter generate a pirated intoxication.
We're too many miles inland but absorb the
placebo's salty breeze.
Hell is in this compensation, Paradise
in the moments you lose track
of that truth.
Storms never pulled from the sea—it's
pushing out through aches, pulsating from
the center out.
Someone under-poured this rum and
the mirage wears off, but that sulfur
smell of coastal estuary is already sunburnt
to my skin.