Wednesday, June 11, 2014


Mope King, you are numb to me,
your branches are fading in the
polluted twilight. Ripples cascade
over black water. The wreck is ornate
and speckled with garish jewels.

Auto-correct: that fissure is
blossoming on all you loved. Blink,
and the next one is gone, and all
who follow in their wake. To bells,
listen. Each of the people are gone.

Heady dim things. All the mustard
around them, all the medic cares
and their great secrets. The way
other minds work is a mystery to me.
The brain of a shell is golden, her moist.


Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home