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Cameron Shute


Edmonton, AL, CA

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song of the thrice-born


Allan Shute

the grotto
twixt the stone
and the dial-tone,
distant wind-whispers
fill a listening, breathing silence;
trip into the still water
waiting here and there in puddles
each time
you let your fingers do the walking

52-card pickup


Allan Shute

life inside the green
bottle: a carnival bull-
et shatters the sky

and i, poor whiteman,
at once discover holes in
my emerald breast

down the velvet-cream
cheeks of the knavish frog, my
life's bane, flow milk tears

the city


Allan Shute

lies beyond,
a freshly laundered jewel
there is a puddle near my house
where the street meets the alley
and it always returns with the rains
to reflect the corner lamplight,
if you only take care
to look out a certain window

dusty leaves


Allan Shute

in her attempt
to hide from the world
she walked with worried eyes,
hid her phone in a basket
and faded away in her tumbling garden,
her nursery of half-remembered joys:
something had gone wrong,
something somewhere had gone wrong --
cats, twin siamese,
melted in and out of the tendrils
while shadow fell upon shadow,
year fell upon year,
and fibre, having no soul-mate nor successor,
fell inwards
upon itself.



Allan Shute

resolved that
an etymologist
does not study

politics were born
when god made eve
(polites meaning, of
course, the citizen,
not the serpent)
with hell being
other people
(or so says one
of them)
it might be wise
to surmise
that families,
in the long run,
what we might describe
as an unearthly peace
after the last
of the babies
has grown up,
gone west (or east,
as the case may be)
and was last heard
to be knocking them dead
out there on the coast
as a comedian
or earthling
or somesuch.