Monday, March 19, 2018

A scene impaled on a thin arm
brown hills with blue and white backing
the spines and ribs of paths
wires ridden high with trembling seats
and slings flung from high trees
the skidding wheels of thoughtless foot pedals
stones turned by a squirrel skull
the fallen rot diagonal
and clouds thick as paint from the mouth
boat wide leaves fallen on a dim lake
chain link singing around my hidden form
notes' timber alive in my tin blood
the hardening of our shared earth
in me like eyes,
the brazen courtship of a killing shroud
scattered with open plastics
a boxed-up wound
simmering saints in jello.

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