He grasps his grieving grapes
with gentle fingers.
His flesh turns papery
in the moonlight,
but his thoughts
contort and comfort
his blistered mind.
Blind rhymes turn corners, tricks.
He nicks a peach.
Who could possibly
conceivably reach
these wretched shores?
Is love a battery
or merely a storehouse
of complex disfigurements?
He doesn’t trouble himself
with such questions,
just keeps on creeping
and peeping shadows,
pulling up teeth
and crooning.
He has a fist
made of shifting swag.
His death is limitless.

-r. miller


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