Toothless days,
Stale, bald coot days
On interstate railroads,
Destination Self-Loathing,
Then Self-Defeating,
It’s a quiet, small town
But they call it a city.

Trapped in my stomach
Like a headless chicken’s
Featherless, eggless
Corpse in the grain.

Days, Panic Stations,
Orange veins from picking
Fruit from the same orchards
For generations until
The task changes you,
The Orchard of Illusion,
You may appear the same
To others but your mirror
Is where the unvarnished
Truth remains, long after
I departed that room
For another day in trouble.

I would box up, pack up
These industries of nothing,
And the roots of mountains
Making good myths’ coffins;
It’s easier in this way
For the wordless, the mute,
To keep a promise.
One day would be sufficient.
I would pack up my bones
And throw the suitcase of my
Self overboard, in to endless
Hungry jaws of the ocean
But the antidote is intravenous
And continuosly working.
You took my hand, soothed
My brow, said you loved me
Although I didn’t know how,
And you put a slender finger
To my lips and softly said,
All we require, my dear,
Is love and wine and apples
In this bowl as proof enough
Of future life and tidal lengths.

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