Thursday, August 1, 2013

draft (1)

dog heart

in the bowl of your hands,
some teeth.
wanting and waiting added
to the list of criminal activity--
a feeling stitched with
bowtie and bone.
i clamor to know how good
the gone was,
rush of pickled blood to cheek,
gallop of your breath
in the brief of screen door,
bag bumping kneebend but
it's no secret.
i mean
you leave so frequent.
there must be a whistle
that buries its pitch
in your pulse.
there must be a howl
devouring all direction--
there must be a reason,
a magician,
an end to arrive to.
there must be something thumping wild
under that thick chest.

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