Ribcage

xxxii

but then

the hereafter was honey-spilled and aftermath-splayed

anyway,

compromised by her luminous spectres

in and out

my fancy fancies

although my head was pummeling

the living daylight

of what's left of the brilliance

in my eyes and lips and hands,

my words and phrases and sentences

spilled

by the messy black ink

into this small piece of

paper

its belabouring diction

and clandestined

communiqué

shouting screaming yelling

by the creases and folds

against

the foreign, unfeeling

locker

of my

linden grace

                                          bleachers.

                                           4pm.

                                                            - c