Pacing
It’s
never different
It’s
always the same
The
machines are roaring and clicking and leaking and breaking
The
washing machine clanks and thumps a spinning, crooked drum
The
fridge is leaking melting ice
The
furnace pops a fuse
And
the wind claws through the cracks in
Cobwebbed
sills and through the jambs of flimsy doors
Beyond
my creaking footfalls
Crooked
rims spark on cracked roads
Soot
dreams snow from sagging rooftops
My
floors ooze nails and the clawing of squirrels
The
tiger’s panting is a phantom’s sigh on the museum walls
Tamed
virility
Dappled
shadows exhaling across cold glass
The
mind tries to forget
But
it’s always different
In
a way
The
same breaking
Of
the sameness
Of
every sex
Her
words are so many rainfalls
Filling
the dry brooks where I have been worn down
Her
words release vast tides and swelling streams
Carving
canyons in the sandy rock of my dumb memory
Her
words are damp cloud-hands resting on my moot belly
Her
wet words and my sand memories
Are
eternally trapped in my cluttered shabby rooms
And
in the cages of my thoughts
Her
words shift through my whispering, dry dirt memories
Through
my mind’s moments
Through
the spinning ellipsis of desert scorched eons
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