A day
i
The severed head on my desk
is weeping.
It will rain.
ii
When no one was looking, I hit the wall with my fist.
The radii of cracked plaster turned into a spider
which tongued its silken spittle over my body
from head to toe and hung me from the ceiling.
People who wanted to pass had to swing me out of the way,
with small cries of irritation.
iii
She went down the hall past my door and turned the corner.
What will happen to her there?
iv
Someone mentioned a man who committed suicide
by attaching the end of his necktie to the hand of a large clock.
v
Your breath is the unfading earliest scent of April.
Your eyes are the smoke of a prairie fire on the horizon.
Your flesh is the purer tone that rises from silence like cream from milk.
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Jon Corelis [log in to unmask]
http://www.geocities.com/joncpoetics
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