The Sad Carousel of Us

[Firstly…]

 

Scrape bottom

with chisel—place

a wreck-it-up heart

in hand—wash

a scoured chest

clear

of you

 

[Before that…]

 

It’s the delicate clasp of a hand

where

our carousel whirls

within a sexed-up room

where

she caresses

my exposed heart

in hand—a

word is surfacing

beneath the steam

of our evening:

 

[Finally…]

 

Calliope, O’ love—

“Chief of all Muses”

Turn

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

began.

 

[Mr. Shiver]

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