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Lure of the Hunt It’s a loss of love, not the loss of life. A sharp knife jellied all of your ten fingers. It knew completely, you’re defiant quarry. Tinder to paper, then smoke to fire. Soon to be extinguished by a downpour’s advent free from its magic trap. It devises freedoms best kept by newness. In unknown ages or bloodshot eyes. Let’s make a final exit from the familiar cage. For a different color, to glow in the irises, same as on one arm. In The Same Breath Much appreciated, more often reviled. Not ever possessing a right kind of radar. Everything couples with insistent lights. I know how to swim but I’m still standing. I can feel the grasp from another hand. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, with his hand on his wallet. Exhibits Blind as a bat but a prowler. In wait for a quarry, one easily recognized. I got this itch I can’t scratch. There’s real meaning, in everything I say. I hope I can find a darkroom photo of last year's body. It’s most likely buried in a museum collection. Bio: Michael Igoe, neurodiverse city boy, Chicago now Boston, recovery staff at Boston University Center For Psych Rehab. Many works appear in journals online and print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), thebluenib.com, minerallit.com. Avalanches In Poetry Anthology@amazon.com. National Library Of Poetry Editor's Choice For 1997. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.