Poem #3



Cotton-colored fog felt of oak bark
coughed and fluttered from the neck;
the fare never walked to work;
death, aboard a derailed wreck,
lumed in orange shadow, over the final choke
withered into none.


In the wake of every word, blame and venom and vertigo and surge,
war took another from life to the brink;
Muhammad, whom venged and cruded from most vexed state
to the empty feet, whom wrapped the breeze, unknown and sandy,
with debris.


Where do we gather blood to seep;
not between the teeth of those we love.
Neither one may live, neither one must rot,
and neither one enough spot
to writhe upon the mud
their bivouac they’re to contrive
to settle in till kingdom come.


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