If you ask whatís become of me
I have to point to a stranger
on the street and say if thereís prayer left
inside that body
itís blue-skinned and shaky
itís dog-eared and barely breathing.
If thereís a way out make it magenta
and shrill, tearing at the upholstery.
At night, when the trees are mascara
sketches against a weeping sky,
I fingerpaint on a rented wall.
And you, I know what you mean,
every old-time barbershop wounds me,
the poleís warped twisting,
the red stripe that never escapes,
the invisible knife, a spiral of apple skin
falling away and away.
Teaches literature and composition at the University of Alabama
Absinthe Literary Review, ACM, Denver Quarterly, Mississippi Review, Optic, Third Coast, Slope, etc.
Words on Walls
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