OF DAYS
—for Alexis
Now it all seems off,
all wrong.
The gray clouds above you
turning purple. Your godly
régisseur turned up
a drunken tizzy, leaving
the set thrashed and the dialogue
stilted. You've got hackles
for a handshake and you've teased
the costume's stitching. Look up,
your narrator is an alloy pigeon
in the rafters
shitting anvils. The clack
and clang a song stuck
in your head, a song
for the panicked parade
which took a hard right
into the crowd
and came out a marching band
playing nothing but bones
of all the fractured you. Here come
the waves of hurtful wanting.
You've gone beneath the table
begging yourself for scraps
while in this house there is
a bed we call death. You must
quit these kidney stone
kind of days, love
the extraterrestrial pain
packed in your chest,
the stranger greeting stranger
forever inside you.
TYPO
29
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