Love Poem

I read your
lineations and find my heart’s hung

from a maple, buckshot
and gutshot and askance.

Here are my fingernails, kindred.
Here, my horror.

Here only the dead cilia of stars.
Here, friend, for your pocket-

calendar I bequeath my dervish travel,
my DNA, my descendant brain

in its most certain, steepest decline.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

S p r i n g G u n P r e s s 2009

editor@springgunpress.com

 

 

 


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