Friday, July 01, 2005

No Worms

talk to me, it's gone,
pumped, soaking the low dirt,
the rusty spigot red
and eager:
push me push me
jam the damn handle
down. Pathetic fluids
sluiced across my moon wrists
like language. I wrote
a hundred words about you -
no more. Don't
mention God, mark
inhales with miracles,
shove faith about like bloody
rags, like bandages -
you're dead. The hump of you
is cast: no blossoms, no worms.


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