Letters

My singular
Vital sign
For I am alive
Is poetry;
Modes and codes
And odysseys;
Odes pulsing
Through my
Malodorous veins
I did not arraign,
And perpetrating
Nevertheless
My entire body,
Despite the crime,
Despite the trial,
Aortic verbal canals;
I see myself on a gallow,
Letters drip from
My incontestable teeth
Through to a rubric,
Through to this
Indestructible
Woodland stream.

For that, in my dreams,
To all intents and purposes,
Is how the robin dyed
His breast in reds,
And how nemesis
Accounted, yes,
For a very baffled hubris.

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