Wednesday, September 16, 2015

At Lake Street

Light falls only   in    his     hut

He mixed night with porcelain
A strip of Czech
On bleached brunette head
The walnut
Missing its wires

Snaking through Apple’s map
Foxtails. E-mails. Blazers. Razors
Clumped into a globe of Day...

...your world, white, cold
A grey eyed child
Buries black bones
Every winter
In the hut – your Uncle whore as a crown!

Published in Coldnoon Travel Poetics

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