I named this song “A Song of Praise.”
So now the land swells agonizingly
into a pulpy mass. I’ve made a mess.
Undressed the silence. You,
I took in my mouth and you
filled my throat with other songs
that I couldn’t sing. So I instead
vomited a string of pearls
upon your unmade bed.
Globs of saliva in your worried hair.
Slimy silken milk
from the dissonant fountain
reigning over all this murk.
The crimson streets embossed
with the names of people who died.
Thus sink the sleeping creepers
of our vanity. Mirrors for all.
I wanted to be a mirror once.
I wanted to drag along bundles
of blunders by my heels.
The real tragedy mounts.
Mountains of fog.
And grievous wounds artfully placed.
Your face within the sewer gas.

-r. miller

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