Another tin can
at the end
of the hypertubule; someone
holds the line
while entropy
exhumes ghosts
supermassive
like the heads of
the nails
in me. Hierophant
on a stick observes
the runes in plasma
as planets cool to
wobbly metaphors.
All matter is dark,
all manner of creatures;
until the primary virtue
of your life
is its length. Going
gently somewhere
so far away from
said trooper
who must have contemplated
posting his 100th letter
care of Nobody, who art
in Nowhere: he's reset
his password for the third time
this month, railed against
the feather beds
to which he is never
invited. He trades
his revolver for
a chocolate bar & a decent glass
of brandy then spends the rest
of his war rooting
for morphine
in the medkits. Four years later,
a handful of coins
& a walking stick are
all that's left now that he's
wasted his last
morpheme
on a love song that came out
something like a hiss.
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