A lavender host

A stimulant ache
brushes past every door here,
and the red paint isn’t paint, it
is an atmosphere of necrotic love
that begs bend straight the neighbors.
It mollifies. It denies denial
to those in surgery and files
odd moments by chronology.
More and more anesthetised
those moments redeem themselves,
as though imaginary their hurt
is hallucination.

High pitched one year, the next like gravel
in a teenage larynx unnerved.
Can’t yet hear its nuances,
how it trembles, how it glances
off the ears of athletes and artists
like friendly sparrows
plying kernels.

Then you can hear it. The birdsong
turns honest set in its home
snug as sand and cannot convince
it talks for talking. Long ago
the worms stopped coming up for air.
Long ago the worms learned their friend
had physical intentions
they could not endure, nor allow unpunished,
and once they were literate of his gestures
they knew birds don’t read
or stare like that.

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~ by Jeremy on January 10, 2011.

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