The void
of my chest fills witlessly with another poem,
pulverized
bones and hammers writ large in the pneumatic
failure.
This wild flesh of abandonment, feral and fine
toothed,
burning under the weight of water. Faster than my
body can
break your absolutes offer no absolution. I find
blood and
release it.
The
stryofoam squelch of snow and a puff of wing beats; a
breath
held too long dissipating. The trees click like firing
pins. An
empty pistol and a lost map. Is this a change in the
weather,
these loose tongues skipping across the frozen sky?.
3
The dirt
from your fingers fills my mouth, the small
skeletons
of an arid sea swim into the pools of my lungs.
Sweetheart,
you never could resist sifting through the
ashes of
the dead for a prize of a powdered lead slug or a
trilobite;
the mineral strains of a memory. There is no
salvage
in the squalor you have graced
.
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