Monday, August 17, 2015


Ointment from the womb,
honey of mother.  Earth's cradle
spat out by volcanic matter.
Nourish the air, this vessel,
and the truth in all ways.
Keep from hiding a firm walk,
pock the sun with keen glasses,
fuck like a frog in a snowglobe city
bring heat to the unlit villages
hidden there in terror, stash fury
in the light of action,
gashed open by silver dictionaries
bleeding organic kisses in flunked rain.

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