Cauliflower ears
of the lotus-eaters;
their bouquets
of blind eyes, prorous
gapes.
Heavy
rain in the bell
of a saxophone;
steel sutures of this
land, the metal skeleton
that upholds
the green goddess.
Crops rotting
in the fields, even this
flower of our breasts
is shellacked.
Other
children will bury
our progenitors.
We give away nothing
but that that has
value, lord over
a mannequin
full of bad air,
melt down books
for fire to torch
the libraries.
No comments:
Post a Comment