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Wednesday Morning

Wednesday morning the clothes pile around toes
and under heels,
rolling ankles like marbles under wheels.
One more time, down the hatch,
your words rinse down the kitchen sink,
grinding and unwelcome.
Remembrances, frigid as tile; picture of a postcard of a time
long gone by.
And on these shards
scrawled memories and weeping fingerprints, muddied.
Consumption: flesh, devoured, inch by inch
up the stack of your spine.
Streaks of rust have blanched your crippled,
oxidized hope.
And on these shards,
paper tigers.
Bouquets of tombstones pressed in
newspaper boxes - the soft silhouette of defeat.
Snares of narcissistic artilleries pile from your jaws
into pillowcases
lashing my sighs ‘till the dawn.
And for those shards
You’ll waste a dream,
fall to
thumbtacks and verb-less knees.
Pass the lippy for August,
thrash the blistering promises of a silky Thursday,
turn over a new leaf,
to lug you across a fallen summer
to a warmer Fall.

7 Nov 08

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