Monday, August 1, 2016

Before the death of Eve

She said—If he doesn't live I'll get a tattoo.
Something blue
I'll hate along my dorsal ribs, the place
of origin and remembrance. A maybe i'll see you Friday counterface
offensive, a fig leaf rhyme-scheme
shuffle between belief & how one seems to believe
that slap of an idea: reconnaisance!
A joke! Here's another giddy cheek; left of the bloody nuisance 
stitched tight at the neck of the throat & the neck of the crotch.
A pox
on our house, darling man
& the vagabond mother she goes a wanderin' outside-the-garden
fro & to
marching the burying ground without ears or stole or harkening clue.

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