Company in every bone

Many Thomases have said what ends one ends one,
and that is that, all notions aside and buried.
Or burned, or eaten alive like the first thinking liver.
Or men die and lose their senses cheaply, or turn
in their graves, or hang, or swelter among iron balls
rusting in a woman’s keep. No wink-eye here. Or
a man may die in his own company, in the chattering
of his million nerves to his other million nerves,
jesting at lonesomeness that tells him he serves it
only, is bossed by the spoiling of biology.


~ by Jeremy on June 8, 2012.

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