National Poetry Month 2021

My fear is perfected.   

Its bract ornamental arms

coerce a smile into leafless impermanence,   

The illusion of desirable scarcity 

Comes from abundance,   

Our bare soles

scrape with a song:

We have come so far, but it is not over.

Every dead itch, a tangled serpent,   

Every single one

Groveling at the bottomless bowl.   


They are perennials,

stomped by clumsy feet dangled and

Stiffened by a musk that bleeds

Sweet notes of a winter flower.

I have everything to be sad about,   

Bones shivered, composed of six white sepals.

The ants are used to my capsules.

They wait for me to die when my fruits rip(e) open.

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