An amnesic germ

On a muscle drowse pleas
the muscle hardly throeing,
nor does memory dub up
like friendly users near enough
who tap a thumb so long
it near overtakes the drum

of burning ears, hot in the furnace,
like the pressure drop when it stops
its lifelong pace to finish soon,
only to rise on the eighth
when no one near comes in distant
graves, themselves mourning

what they lost and who are flowers
now, growing downward on a nod
to the seed, the seed that breathed
through its mouth once,
falls into the black where
only germinating things think

unfeeling though they are
& seeing double, think they see double,
two for a fair at the spree
where obese and victim alike
fight for the seed only to recede
back to their legs, themselves

but thirsting branches whose
bark would revel in the sun’s walk,
will only thin out, will only feed
what stretches from beneath the stalks
in the long yoga of the dark
from where slumping things come.

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~ by Jeremy on October 2, 2010.

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