It all comes down to this.
Streaks against the sky.
Israel’s foster children
slowly dripping out of focus.
And there’s a needle in my brain.
Or in my chest. Or in my stomach.
There’s a needle somewhere,
a most unpleasant needle,
stupid white thread in tow,
whose sole intent, it seems,
is to sew me where
I need no sewing up.
The sirens on the rim
are throwing up empty syllables
and sifting through
one another’s scalps for lice.
Clusters of malignant ice.
Glass caskets. Bloody lips.
Biorhythms broken by the…
Often indecisive… Tremors.
I’ve grown to dislike
this smug sun of ours,
hung up dans le ciel
like a hypnotic clock.
Truth decays. Somebody here
owes an explanation.

-r. miller

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