Sunday, August 12



yours is a grave waiting to be planted
next to a woman’s who one day isn’t

o her – you will say
I remember her

not yours she isn’t now
but once, like a carnival
is part once of a village

i’s in love with her myself
& you were, too; everybody

(lo, she had a zit that I wanted
to taste because it was hers;
concentrated; next to her lip
on a jaw took I saw her stole
from the museum of natural history

cotton silk denim and peacock
pubic hair, whaddamound of what?
just cunt some uterus; her shirt
tucked in; perfect o my yes perfect
arrangement of everyfin
designed to out spit kids

on patio furniture she kneeled
and cried and cried and lalala made
sad faces and she came in my shower
(buckling) but wait she lay with me
on some cold cold ground and looked
we to stars to see but saw then ate
dull food and dull it was not to me)

the streets offer
better but i
for a long long time
what it d be like
to be buried next to her

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