Toxin
You dead
egg.
You
black-winged god
of
pre-history. My bones
rattle
their dusty marrow
whenever I
set foot
upon one
of your spectral steps.
Grease-fuelled
stars fly
away
in terror.
Knot-filled
friendships
tear in two.
You cold
penny.
A font
lies
outside.
My decorative crypt
is made
of clay.
Water
In my
garden, I stumbled
through
overgrown dahlias
where a
sick musk
hung,
unforgiving, as the sun
forbid
me
slake
my dusty,
arid tongue.
No comments:
Post a Comment