Monday, March 14, 2011


Wet sox left under the waxing
moon of those not admitting
belief in a long day’s work

Someone reached for the bell
announcing holy war in a field
behind my father’s desk

Another departure fitted with
a frame that I invented
and then dug up in the cellar

Twin features of obsession now
making a ghost enlist and steal
eyes out of their orbit

Account selected with a hammer
when lifting or crushing slabs
afraid of everything else

Like award for diligence
by entourage stuck between
appointments and a subject

seemingly incurable that copes
with hogwash religion until
zero decides to play fair

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