Wednesday, November 16, 2016

At the Margin of Things





At the Margin of Things


These days
behind what I write
there's always rain.

Music opens a sphere
and unheard of ghosts
come and go as they please
singing,
dance me to the end of love,
but I can’t.

The insults, the injuries
made at the margins  
are unsafe halfway houses of terror,
where naked orange clowns 
grow balls, and file their nails.

Gravity ceases
under their wet boots

and it rains
all over
my margins.

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