Monday, July 2, 2012

Poem 2

Those that enter this fabric
are standing and watching
from the side view,
but are closer than they appear.
Their eyes are made of triangles;
harps pressed into golden eggs.
If you look at them closely,
they eviscerate, become dust on a windowsill,
or shape-shifting clouds of ash.
If you squint, they might
drip down the side
and leave the impression
of a man who's hanged himself.
All the more gruesome in their lifeless form,
shocking you into wakefulness,
sending you into convulsions,
then dissipating into a deep, graduated silence.
What do the voices say?
I am undone, and continuous,
without context.

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