Monday, August 2, 2021

I was told there would be no Dylan

 A process is the weave of the heart

Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.
A conk in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm.

A process in the eye promades
The bones of blindness; and the womb
Deys in a death as the follicles leaks out.


ndspinelli said...

This guy needs to get laid.

edutcher said...

Wop bop a looma bop a lop bam boom.