Good aim son

A year from now suppose the story is young
when the splitting started, that splitting
consensus had when I saw yellow and others
not. What they saw I don’t quite fathom.
A year from now bygones be bygones I’ll
swelter in May the birds unnamed flirting.
Two years and I come out of my head
like banshees flung from the nostrils
and the tympanics, fleeing like the dead
newborn. Three and the counting goes awry
all silvery when my eyes in tatters
molt away my arms seeing halfassed for me.
Four, I’m all ears, the lobes stretching
to sorts of nonsense only asyla know
about how they pitter, how they patter.
Poor man me, it’s a poor man’s foe
who is his own incorrigible shadow.

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~ by Jeremy on May 24, 2012.

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