Oct 29, 2014


         05.12.93.dom,ut AP 0581

I’m at home.The mask of frontiersman is off,
costume of a bumpy warrior is thrown in the funnel,
I’m wearing the rags of my groan,
claws of a pack are withdrawn
into the shriveled trench of my palm,-
but there is no way to cast of
yoke of my cotton days

soggy dark caught the Luna
over her throat-
he overlaid the blade:
cutt-throated light falls to the ground,
darkness drunk the tears away

out of my mind
with my rubber head,
but Mother is there no more

is it crumbling
the blue of the sky,
or did you Mother
-fall in the cold grave ?
ramparts of my room whisper:
-she couldn’t make it through.

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