A pair of haunts look like everyone

They grew old in their wreath
of the nets they cast from their bodies.
Was strung to every planet’s sky
and hung into Hades, down there where
like kids again they stroll through
the narrowed angles of their eyes,
caught up, flopping in a perpetual basket
of their enmeshed skeletons replete
and burn their fat for heat.
They wash the floors lying on
their backs, remove the windows,
barricade the stone rolling door
and resurrect in three seasons
by virtue of friendship with the flax
growing above their locked heads,
adrift on the water table looking up
where once abrupt they settled
for their hermitage staring and mute
but for their paired throats made of flutes
could let out the night wind
or their late voices on it
or talk bright red wearing a corset of flax
or remain underneath, where they
are happiest in the sole company of mold
looking like them lately, hunched over too.

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~ by Jeremy on January 3, 2011.

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