Shock

the flesh of the city is made of night and recently unclothed bones
march in our town is wet
it makes our minds dry

we scribble metaphors on the fingernails of trees
and ring the bells of grace

a duck pirouettes into the swamp up to her neck
looks up and disappears from view

most of the time i am crying
slippery strips of grass on the hairless part of my face

i am weeds and groans
a trough on a public bus
and a pastry on a Parisian street

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4 thoughts on “Shock

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