Friday, August 3, 2012

UNDERGROUND STATION


Full exposure is impossible. The tissue is eyeless.
A rubber gimp chewing off a mind. Its receptivity
spreading across the yard, gathering in the seals
around the window. Starting to drip in.
A plastic bag needs sincerely to gorge. You need
small hands to gargle. In the future, you will not like snow.
Any curse stems from heavier material. Some miracle mist
that impedes city sewers. Displacing the warp, as death
intermittently feels the urgent need to change.
Its cues are not carried over from the front
of the pitchfork to the rear. Hovering. Interstates transition
from luxurious stitching to orange peel.
Rust: that ancient precursor to the non-retractable pizza.
Ted Bundy appears offset. Death turns too close
on the same side of the road as that old armadillo. Both
know that, per whim, one can feel synchronized.
One can hover. Gargle. Gorge. Have small hands.
No eyes.

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