The Sad Carousel of Us



Scrape bottom

with chisel—place

a wreck-it-up heart

in hand—wash

a scoured chest


of you


[Before that…]


It’s the delicate clasp of a hand


our carousel whirls

within a sexed-up room


she caresses

my exposed heart

in hand—a

word is surfacing

beneath the steam

of our evening:




Calliope, O’ love—

“Chief of all Muses”


the sad carousel

of our bruises—

the chiseled out

worried-weak heart

of our hours;

in hand—now

a vacant chest,

near the shiver

of our carousel,

where we first



[Mr. Shiver]


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