Dull winter morning

sky is flaking and I

gray monk

rise from a fruitless meditation

to write,

write a confirmation

of yesterday, for today

is much the same

nothing’s changed

dog bite scars

have not healed

hollow wonderings

of death continue

to echo like voices

through a tarry tunnel.

This love is godawful

allegorically dead

dead, stone beautiful

but dead

like a stillborn child

whose placenta waits

to follow

making whole the death.


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