March 20, 2011

Pursuits of Industry and Improvement by Paul Cunningham

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:

shaun said...

"a scrap / of proper" and "the American grave" are awesome. this poem is hella chilly.