am veins, etched to inverse arm
slipped like scratch-lines down
morning, vain, marks and slumps
lumps of knot. perhaps some new
intersection in the blood where
an overpass coil, a kinked hose
a tourniquet of twisted streams
in turn tourniqueted, too. torn
crimped in couplings of statosphere
what drip? what stut
terred
fall, flip
cups catalyzing, crisp, or perhaps
merely crusted, over rot that
seeps and eases into clouded threads
No comments:
Post a Comment