Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Bicycle rolls the high hill
into a ball of putty.
Warped wheels speak to pine needles
rounding the bend to brick sanctuary
plummeting home in the genitals of a church.

Long towers of clay speak to bird's feet.
Brazen beaks peck yesterday's shit.
Benches  re-shape the spines
of wandering re-shapers who
duck attic entrances to speak boiling air
past the frozen nostrils
on ancient horses, molded in bronze
and steel to strengthen silence.

Dead kittens in a stone bird bath
bowl, blood decorated by clustered
leaves, fallen from the veins
of the sky, faintly creaking
in the zone of no laughter.

The way must be broken to breathe,
space latched needs matter to eat,
skin soldered by time needs a mind
to dance prints with, the frolic of murder
melted by birth after birth in tandem dresses.

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