Saturday, October 8, 2011

she said to cut the daisy from my throat (II)

then throw it in the garden but the soil
isn't rich.
throw the preacher
down the stairwell and a comb
falls from his pocket. every hair
in place precisely, coins don't rattle.
(though dice do) instead they
stick to your bare feet so
you drop them, they ring in the
ceramic offering bowl. it's a sink,
really. don't ask where the pipes go.
they don't even tell God
that shit.

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