black spirals of ruined paper
and in the distance a siren tolls
and I wonder if it legal here to burn
___________________________
The sun bakes pieces of pavement
along the traces started by
the refracted wavelengths of light.
The heat radiates images false as our gods
from a base of causeless thankless rock made molten
so that it could later be walked upon.
____________________________
lips of wine with a tongue of vinegar
____________________________
It is a singular subtle untruth, like the recording
of a lover’s voice scratched onto
mass produced speakers.
_____________________________
I never wanted to be a poet.
Whatever that is.
______________________________
a rose, my love, its bulb flowering
in the dark of an autumn night,
need only be brought out
when one wishes to tempt the thorns
______________________________
a voice like tattered sheets
as she drives away whispering
“you don’t mean that much to me”
______________________________
my fingers bled onto the strings bound to the maple
like a war god on an evergreen tree
______________________________
and their love was a vial of old cyanide
locked in a small chest which could be opened
by any key in the world
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