Tuesday, March 26, 2019

I see rooms and vacant figures
buried in the silk of film
passages latched to foam
that give aging bodies rest
porcelain footpaths and
the alphabet of a spiked tread.

Frozen doorways for a punctured soul
that walks the rain on eight leashes.
Long beds singing with rushed graces
embroidery of grand fossilized orifices
hissing to the ruts of time.

Buds that slide across a single claw
decorating a wrecked pillowcase.
Slashed curtains hitching
a skinned windowsill
dangling over the padded
markings of death.

Charcoal sunrises tickling
a chicken voice
from a papered over

Main streets tugging
the shallow flow
of vagrant water
to the pinnacle's powdered arm.

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