that was the year he started
walking in fear, feeling shame
lodged like a plank, or a pickaxe,
conspicuous, clumped in the
brain, the weight of God in
the arched two backs of sacred
and profane.
Here growls the trespasser,
unbolting himself from the gate of his crowd,
a Usain from start to finish,
a feast waiting for dark spell working.
Time for little flashbacks,
spring rain outside, the cuddles in bed,
sleep-ins, her tiny hand around his finger.
Read MoreAnd there is nobody on the roads; nobody out – I thought that everyone would be fleeing to Malaysia, but I guess that everyone who did is already there, and everyone who hasn’t would rather die than go to Malaysia. Maybe the world has already ended in Malaysia.
Read Moretomorrow is tomorrow until they haul you
into the furnace. legs first, then the bones, then
all the eulogies that follow. pa, i am nineteen
years too young for this: the herbal chicken soup
spilling out of the pot.
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