Wednesday, May 10, 2006

Second Firmament

Only the pods in their thinking caps
Desire more furniture than we do.

The agreements postpone lunches
For hangnails and reminders of scrapings

On the door, on the furnace near yard
Of metal shavings, near a hard corner

Where the chin meets a table, amicable
Then the blood. I sent e-motives to outer

Space when I was 8. I kept a hard look
At the surplus rug they gave us

To cover the stains, to cover the beatings
And a halo on a ghost in a carefully

Matched box centered so no one would notice
In the heart of a wooded housing complex.

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