Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Caterpillar Voices

Stuffed with periods
To two worlds.
On cascading sewerage
Tossed into balls

Bell jars explode
In caterpillar voices

The green strip moves to Savannah fields
Pygmy pods open
With yellow seeds

The heart was never dark
Veins never change on map of blood...
Pitcher plants ate the last butterfly
Tattooed on my breath.

Who will make Russian salad with Chinese cabbage?

Red always cries
In tomatoes
Of Hanging Gardens buried
In tongues...

Published in Coldnoon Travel Poetics

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