Morning Confession
metal pierces blushing flesh
fingers probe, plunge into the land’s
heart-shaped child, pry into
intimate corners, prod
white fibers and pull forth
beads of flesh
they shatter
explode
between coffee-stained teeth
on the plate a carcass splayed open
bloodless, vacant, defunct
Thursday, November 27, 2008
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1 comment:
I was thinking about calling it "Morning Confession, or Pomegranites for Breakfast"
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