A fat stone around another

Yours is a house which kept mine hovel.
Mine for a body attached
to another, haught, upright, stout
in the still sturdy but when
everyone lets it out
from their frail diaphragms
it all nods, cools down.
What does the wall read of itself?
Or of its nose that had
coughed a hard early wake
in its iris, like the dawn
no one ever peers through;
so late dawn, then the drawn-out
morning so like noon it
draws its seizure fit.
This is what the deserts think
of everyone who is a house
kneeling bony on it, does not know
when to sink or stand but quickly can
peel a tortoise of its house,
sleep, one hour, two hours baking
on that blast where good things happen
like a man’s tinnitus who blew
the bells from his head
quite like stinking metal into you.
Would feel this if the land
had miles-long neurons anymore
rather than what’s nuclear to count,
count like man once did his sores.


~ by Jeremy on October 3, 2010.

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