Thursday, July 29, 2010



He who lays on his own doorstep,
crying as if he cannot get in.
That one ate the berries
and puked them onto a runway.

We hear the scythe of his sun's last surge
in the trots of a kitten, bound for brush
and to be mysteriously eaten,
corpse-flaps torn like fetal wings
failed beautifully against moss forest floor.


He chases himself around the room, she drifts
across wall after wall healing blisters in the paint,
he won't look. Now and hereafter are the same
crimson muddle. Elbows eye sockets greasy hairs
in greasy teeths.

A new bulb grown between weather
near the top of a central town statue.

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