Wednesday, April 04, 2007



As if that lets you off the hook. My skirt
could not become your palm, spread
wreckage of tires, triggers.
Giddyup, lover. (But really
you are full of it.) I practiced
making fists under the table
as garden walkers rowed the aisles
with sown syringes. You think
I don't know how you stay
awake so long? The taste
of gunpowder
on your wrists
and the dogs barking
all through the night. I hang
my garments on the line
inviting fire, syllables.

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is this real?