Monday, February 11, 2019

I couldn't make it
to the holy sacrament.
Black doves ream a circle
around my muddy feet.
Blades for plowing the grid
rest on engine grills
water runs and shakes the concrete.
Benches rise on balloon strings
framed faces and reptile confetti.
Kitchens open to a hail storm
long gleaming tables.
Faint movement of the clocks
the necklace glimpse
of a world without people.

Mirror wheels
on a train track of electric bass
cans and bottles blowing
in directed wind.
And a sash of cloth tattoos
from gun hand to grinning mask.

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