August 2, 2012
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here she comes again

that bird who reprimands me

in the dark

tallons claw at my stomach

etching in the gospel according to mark;

She’s buried

underneath fall’s forgotten,

rotten leaves

huddled in their mass graves

of concrete

To everyone they are dead

—but they are not dead to me.

Cancer of the throat;

cells multiplied from the gloat

and now she cannot sing

but sits and stares, stares, stares

through a torn bastard wing

where the hell do you come from?

I do not pity you,

I didn’t ask for your wedding ring

or is this all deja-vu?

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