Saturday, April 17, 2010

Poem 17

let's ready the fragments
the grit & soot & filament

i took because i'm a taker
it was red & fibrous

you aren't a giver, not giving
your pulp in your palm

we string the stringy bits
like thread to make a sandwich

lick our gums, lick all the guns
each pistol, crumbling paper

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