Collarbone Coast

In the motel they sent me to draw waves, 

But I didn’t find backwater.

My cracked hands were all shortages. 

So I walked the collarbone coast

Treading on bottles and bread. 

As I stopped to watch the daily punch-up

How black my heart was! 

And I went on sobbing and sobbing. 

In witness I have no great-cockfight left,

No sunhat, a thin coach jacket.

My handicrafts are all soundtrack. 

It is a pledge to be alive. 

But I had rather quickly leave the eating.

-Job

(Oulipo poem based on excerpt from a 1st century B.C Chinese poem: The Orphan)

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