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Loving on the Narrow Ledge
Amour encore, a risk
as scores of music go.
For Whom the Bell
goes flat yet rings in lieu.
A prefix for non sequiturs.
Its parlance beating gong of need.
Sweater threads that tug and pull,
survive to meet unraveling.
Slick and sick at times to play.
Abandoned strings of violins.
Back seat old jalopy body
craving bows and certain stretch.
Passion ain't a comfort vice.
Too consuming. Always drooling.
Itchin' right below old stings.
Eve's apple was an ample sample
fate is always living down.
Trouble's tabernacle choir
in barnacles of memories.
Men who slapped me black and blue--
urgency I read like Braille with ships
that steer through tight canals.
Cool and wet in ancient marble
pummeled by gray pounding rain.
I lose a water ski in lakes--
take to swimming by mistake.
A Venus with her arm removed,
craving saws that wrote that break
like tree limbs grab an autumn leaf.
Heart fart tartar on my teeth,
preferring flaws to un-lived dreams.
Perched on loving's narrow ledge.
The way a tear belongs to grief.
Distributing Death
When you died, everyone
wanted something
of your heritage.
A sofa, tarnished silver trays.
Some symbol of collected grit
dancing away from grabbing hands.
The diamond in your wedding ring.
A Wedgewood plate
or a Staffordshire dog.
Some took priceless cherrywood.
Some took cash to rub between
the palms of loss.
Some took oil-scented books.
The spackle of your earthly voice.
Postcards of your precious sounds.
Slats and slots of wicker chairs
entrapping grief and rocking it.
A rosary of real pearls
to drop in mangers of the world
like bastards at a Sunday Mass
that grow from rules you
smacked and crushed with
passion's always urgent gait
assuring love escapes its bounds.
Things are never bright enough
to wake the dark of bleeding tombs.
Distributing death and daffodils
was something left for poetry.
Pride without the prejudice
that would have made a Bronte proud.
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