a sniper's poem
Hail Eris, Full of Grace.
Won't you sit upon my face.
the world spins like a phonograph
from here the center despondent
or maybe grooved in the outer ridge
my needle finds its placement
spinning, turning, memories fade
housing collapsing like sunburnt bones
heartcage of those who die deserted
falling like piano keys through hazy smoke
in the tepid afternoon midnight of a blues bar
abandoned buicks in saddened rows
for harvesters that never arrive
rising like rushes into the noon wind
in the six o'clock shadow of a surging storm
spinning sepulchres on thick walls of glass
music surmounting sweat energy subsided
rhythm like breathing that stewards our lives
pervading the essence with echoing resonance
this is the season of anything goes,
the music of life around our eyes flows.
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