Parlor Games

 

this abuse has the flesh of a sugarcane stalk
staccato of a spine riven with no notice or
very little.

you see, I am told that each battery
possesses its own structure. the recipient tongue
-with each-
must protract for translation.

it is not much different than eagerly leaning
into a pelting. or putting
your ear to a stone floor.

this our diet of
sugar crow. this our
lung in the
astral pasture of
a winter.

it was not doom.
it was not unwelcome.

it was as though a mantic atlas held
our welt
and the kingdom of
injury belonged to us both.

the fantasy –I guess- is to imagine
that it is without melody. can you
not hear it?

every time it swings, I swear
it sings
i have not yet left you

 


Image Credit: Ash by Bryan Nash Gill

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