found and vicious
The poems are not writing themselves they are writing me some deep river in me an electric cord a space heater too close to the tub they are tightening the spring in me the jack in the box held under the pasture pond its hideous face growing slack no more sick surprise no more finder’s keepers one potato two potato there were never enough closets to hide in the old shack behind the barn is missing the old piano is breaking down I cannot locate the seam on its belly I cannot find the cord to pull it free the cow’s sack is swollen to bursting her yowls hurt my ears I cannot unremember it I cannot find my footing I cannot reflesh the fossils of the house the years will not unwind there is no resetting the unseated gods the hearth has gone to ashes ghosts are gathering thickly now these poems are not poems they are claws scuttling across the nursery floor a tight pinpoint of girl is dilating slowly.
