Into the arms of the wounded umbilicus
The
deflowered bloom of Copernicus
What?
That metaphor makes no sense
How
about the buried scratch of assassination?
What
the hell? Okay, let’s try this we
Become
the sharp wail of the most brute
Usury,
the fist of fewer pinings, the less leisure less
Sweet
kiss-offs in the craggy brim of water
Which
from cloudheight look so small and clean
What?
I will fire the coordinator of my dreams!
Well,
do you remember in 1976 how that wild pony
Cocoa,
broken-in for barely one day, how he
Took
me out onto that country highway how
I
leaped into the ditch like the eleven-year-old
Coward
I was and am and will continue to be?
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