precious stones

May 22, 2008

I am eating nuts in sugar.
I see a pile of glass chips,
brown-gold: scab pus glistens..
Pain. My teeth feel brittle.

My beautiful face is crunching
in the glass at home. Before
I come to its aid the guards
prop bones and mop the blood

their precious stones were squeezing.
Lord God I am sick of poems
that nuance violence like swans.
Lord God I am sick of mirrors.

If poems are swans
and if you are stuck
under glass below
take your pick
to them. Good luck.

In Eden the cycles
are ouroubus ripples.
Will I be alone
like the mirrors in rain?

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