If it pleas, destroy the coin jar, scoop its marrow
and buy me a lickerish night on the crown floor
of the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast.
Find sludge in the ass clefts of settees,
tomato ore batter, cobwebbed and dry,
like pressed flowers to treat this gland inferno.
It’s clues now that usher the dawn of the dark.
Blood-slicked cardigans, keyholes to tundra,
all fall under winter’s first fingerprint dusting,
a white mausoleum that smothers fatty evidence.
A lack of telltale bones keeps me hidebound.
No comments:
Post a Comment