Saturday I watered the post and let them in
Stuck as angels caught in the wiring
Listening to the flat footed songs
Lessen by evening thoughtlessly thrown
Loosen by cavities storefront left behind
Clay vessels with claws detached
Wanting to wash my hands but I won't
Pouring warm porridge
Reach for a towel, read insanity clause
Warm cold dripping from heart
Let the south-west in
It's not a direction but a thought
Piece by piece piles come together
As they ought
Written in glass the arm cut off
And the parsing games began
A noun a vowel slowly drops out
Sitting on the toilet, flush behind
Round and round it goes
Down and down it goes
That old black magic.
Denis Streeter 3/23/13
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