in each of seven drawers:
credit card, butterfly
knife, dirty magazine,
bronze flask, burner
phone, bar of soap, terrible
poem. Shake out rugs
in the kitchen, eat
the brown cloud of fine
dust like the tasty limbs
of children. A god
hungry as all the rest,
the slaughter of the innocents:
everyone is innocent
until proven worthy
of illumination. Exclaim
& exclaim again w/in
his hollow innards,
a strophe for every baby
he's ever churned
into butter. Tie
a bell around his neck
lest he wander too far: drum
circles to hem him in,
chicken wings &
bongos when everything's
too cheesy for his gongs
to bang.
No comments:
Post a Comment