Tuesday, March 17, 2020

A porch of stone
with a quiet egg
pig wrapped in a robe
of human hair

the quiet of a fractured garage
still standing on stilts
glued to wishbones
an impossible night.

Rolling chair indenting
a tarp of meat
the bug's heart
of a raging microphone
slabs talking to a cinnamon coal
from peak to swollen peak
the islands of wires that are eating

flicker of a cemetery's lichen flank
aloft on the dumpster dawn.

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