Friday, April 10, 2009


I touch the spot
darker red on dark red
I touch the wet spot

My aunt would tell you
it's noon somewhere. I sing
out but songs sap sorrow.

I collect all dark
saying in a bucket. Words
for broken, for sewage.

Yesterday our pot had
a chicken in it because
chicken was dripping and cheap.

Do you remember the book
about turtles with pictures
of ancient, superfluous skin?

I don't think this pen
is going to work anymore,
at least not for me.

When you leave the laboratory
at three-thirty and drive
backwards through gloom--why do you?

I have a cyst, I have
bible-wrist and someone
with have to thump me.

Tomorrow the name of the new
game will neither be salvation
nor poetry. Maybe vegetables.

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