your
ears are on the floor.
i
treed your mouth remind it
how
to bay but
it
only coughs mapache, mapache.
well
mettled over and lacking acutely
i
set out to track you back through time,
resculpt the deadweight wax -
the
scent river trickled cold
some
time around a bare-faced day
six
years ago maybe, your shoes off
so
i tune fine synesthesia whiskers,
seek
your rubbings on the yonders -
the
boulder vibrations dissolved
to
a sandy detritus to sift, to sieve
for
battered membranes
punched
out by dadding.
feet in mud with grass
growing up through them.
hours
dripping off
the
nose of a lonely bottle.
i
may find, might fight my way back
or
hunt blue-faced through
grease
puddle unframed prints. clutching
artifacts wetly.
a ward. a t-shirt
worn a first day -
hole in one breast -
unwashed in a coon’s age
Synesthesia! YAY!
ReplyDeletefive day day days without a cutlass was sad
ReplyDeletei was so sad
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