it is Monday, and the dead are still awake.
no curfew for the statuette
on laundered linen raised as curtains child.
four-sticks of man, one push
it is old enough to snow here
this valley of the string where stains malign.
the fat talk from the mouth\'s that pick and grind
behind the ears. all bowels empty still.
the mince of words that bounce across the chest
a season of tomorrow\'s statin
crawling through a slipknot on a not so gentle wing.
it is the turkey\'s blood of folklore
singing to the masses. a pedicure of arms.
foot and mouth. black toad. obstinate.
not by age the grimace of the young.
achilles heel. a carpet ride. carpenter by trade.
the stubborn leek that winds it windows down.
the holy perch she swings a summer\'s sweat
through words of June I cannot understand.
if she moves she will not bother us.
an air-to-air of corrugated steam
white water-ride to the poppies come July.
heaven under-foot. thunder-bolts dark liquor
each hour growing late. it flickers ill.
I bring grave news from the bottle-tops of light.
she has sucked her one last sleeping pill
now spoons a mother\'s milk
onto her pale and haggered face.