The land race

The hanged are learning to celebrate
The music their feet drag to, all bass
Heartbeat and the cheer of a family
Mob. Sicily is black as corn cobs
On the ground or in a new path
In, perhaps, a path of fingers.
The hanged never duck under
Ladders or climb them high.
One foot on, one foot off,
Isn’t that what Mama said?
If you forget your rung
You lose your head or bowels
Like the crowd losing theirs
In walking corn-pone stink.
Better that than the pot
Cramped and hot, you get to waltz.


~ by Jeremy on March 31, 2011.

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