Monday, November 21, 2016

Yards of bled-on salt
crying out for new purpose,
vocals dying against stone.
Numerals of popped rice
flaring oiled light on
a sensitive mask.
Tunnels lit by corpses
of the sun's sisters.
Blown-out ceilings of chrome
writing cursive with heat.
Split yams offering wheat
to the boxed-in mouths.
Crane lifts stripping the lids
from honed orbs.
Body breaking open
into rainbow light.
Fevered acceptance gulps up
the panting warrior of garbage collection.
And a street slams all their brawn
ejaculating cycles under the earth skin
treehouses on unclimbed boughs
forecasting the mute governments of man.

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