a crack around the room reminds me that place
is important in poetry and in life
it's just a setting. tired rips are starting
in my chest, the wraparound clavicles
arched and limber, like cakes frosted
and forgotten. the wrists tapping wires
are all around the sleeping dog, the human
mantra of control is having to pee
and no where to go. the house smells
like sewage and no one remembers
one hundred years ago, dumping crusts
off street corners, out windows, jumping bridges.
turning the rims off, the sucking motion
of a faucet, I see myself dripping, drip.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment