All the Things That Crumble

Poetry

Photograph by author

Gathering of the bones
and exhales through
grinding mandible receptacles
that was as
innocent as could be
past the Middle Ages.
Now live reporting
of death tolls and lives told.
Mine is an inspection
backwards of fraud and
delayed business communication
of worthless
crocheted stories of your
money-grubbing. The silence.
Nothing neutral in that.
All predictable:
The distorted word abortion of
William Blake & Maurits Escher.
Yesterday, I gave up.
I walk a peripheral and flaccid neuropathology to say:
This is my new passport.