valves / conversation

March 14, 2016 § 2 Comments

one can be a bit dire, and skilled
at misery, though speaking of
rabbits, i’ll keep ruthlessly mutilating
my whiskey, o conductress of solitary
urns, keep this film and its score away
from flames, once again; and tangentially,
burn and burn all the bright lights where everybody
knows who you are, your foot in this circle, your
rancid hand in that, welcome, welcome, though
the tragedy arrived yesterday, and i am not so much
a social Schmetterling

I do not know the words
so I’ve made them up,
and down comes the rain.

And to the east the moon rose
over a flock of ghosts
somewhere thrust forth
by the hoarseness
of mountains.

Left there unable
to hold a mirror
or peer down into one
they watch the rain
shatter through them.

A wave coasts
and turns to glass
again and again
all at once so solid

even a ghost can’t get through.


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