i am a scrap
of proper, of civilized
but just a scrap
a heart:
a hand pulls away
lonesome, like
the anxious centipede
a pocket to elate me, a place
to hear every faceless voice in a room
night's pillow:
a ghost's oily residue
no tears remain
our nightly dream
the American grave
1 comment:
"a scrap / of proper" and "the American grave" are awesome. this poem is hella chilly.
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