I think of the old pipes,how everything whitein my house is rust-stained,and the gray-snoutedraccoon who insists on usingmy attic as his pee pad, I’vetried, oh I’ve triedto noavail, and certainsadnesses losing their edges,their sheen, their furchalk-colored, lookat that mound of laundry,that pile of pelts peeled awayfrom the animal, and poems,skinned free of poets,like the favorite shoes of that deadgirl now wandering the streetswith someone else’s feet in them.
Legacy
Sep 06, 2022
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