Friday, August 6, 2010

Broken Lines

On Thursday I dreamt
I had broken my
fist against your face
painted harlequin masks
that hung in fun
house mirror twisted
glory chains on our
stucco white-washed

It was two days ago after
noon when you
had barged
through the metal mesh
screen door,
cursing red-yellow-blue
streaks that hung like
steam clouds in your

Sunday morning
crosswords carpet kitchen
tiles, hatch-marked Tony
Award winners and
the coloquial name
for axilla coat
the hop-scotch

The night before this morning you shot
down your search light eyes,
rimmed your mouth in concrete,
and opened up a wind tunnel in your throat.

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