Sunday, January 17, 2010


strand of a lover’s hair,

or fingers, what palms’ cavernous spectacle inside a fist,

an apocalypse of flesh and bone

what meat makes wo/man? What femur?

To spark-up speech, perhaps a bit hastily,

waving an abstemious finger

toward dawn as the din of morning bells’ paean chime pairs with ghostly shapes

& slivers of skin eking out inexcusable ampleness like it was God of the uterus

claiming vacuum within the cosmos

of one

as the grandiose ziggurat ascends

boldly toward the heavens

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