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| Wilting Daisies |
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|by Janet I. Buck
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In the mute glow of wine
pressing fire in sunken cheeks,
you open up a magazine.
My name inside its broken spine.
You ask me what on earth (again)
I was smoking at times
I wrote this that.
Such an insult to my grief,
my burnished scrolls of happiness,
trails of people I respect.
You leave your glass.
Its sweaty rings like fish scales
in a grounded boat.
I pick it up.
See our tarnished avenues,
their tunnels and their sorry caves.
I walk you to your waiting car,
think of stop lights you will run.
Walls you scratch with fingernails,
removing paint with tongues
of surly acetone.
Pillars of my strength you smash
by backing up in nothingness.
And then I suck my fathom pipe,
drift outside our languishings.
A wilted daisy pokes its head,
droops a frown, begs
for something moist and clean.
Its trowel, a sword in godless sky
embedded in our satin mud.
Sunrise is a cranky hour
morning after agony.
I'm brittle and abandoned now.
Raped by ways your eyes don't rain.
by Janet I. Buck |
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