Five-minute poem, your tyranny of time
Demands I make every consecutive line rhyme.
In the
snowstorm of composition, tiny ants take a trek—
Flotsam-jetsam
rising slowly from my imagination’s wreck.
The warmth
of the central heating is a muffler on my arm—
Incongruous,
mysterious, doing less good than harm—
And yet I
tied it myself in my turtleneck sweater
To make the
suffocation of paranoid window-shopping better.
Leach from
my bones every crystal of salt!
Don’t blame
me for the taste; it isn’t my fault
That in my
serene body, not a salty bone lies;
The soil
will be fertile upon my demise.
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