old poem 1


10 September 2012

relativity is king.

the sculptor’s clay is compost.

adam’s mud is manure and god’s breath is a diesel belch.

(try not to be disappointed.)

light bounces off of wax-paper foliage.

using a chewed rib as a trowel, i transplant flowers to a corner of the garden where

they cannot be touched or found.

dictionary crypts house the dry, flattened friends.

but it does not happen to me.

it happens to the adult human being who lives here now.

i created this corner from mud and manure.

i am the fork-tongued, fire-breathing, child-god of this corner.

old poem 1

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