The Psychologists – A Poem by Julie Hogg


Only once they agree,
it looks better there,
between dead perennials,
citronella unlit candles,
Sidewalk Gray solar lanterns
like dental amalgams.

Neglecting wax, flakes
and wicks, unsatiating
flummery, he’s watering
a malady, grave-dressing
childhood memories of
Freudian slips in longer grass.

Citing pheremonal olfactics
in Norwegian rats, frosting
snowdrops in a herbaria,
she’s hot-housing possible
theories, stroking his stubble,
smoothing his silver temples.


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