Life Picked Clean

I’m no longer certain
that the ground will hold.

Evidence flocks.
Sunken perimeter.

I swallow biography whole,
life picked clean by gut flora.

In this instance,
we are but incidents.

This isn’t a test,
but a trap.

Clap once for yes,
twice for help.

Gaze thwarted by cold introspection,
colder snows.

What if the mind
is merely a function?

Adjunct disjunct.
Connective tissue.

The reissue comes at first in waves
before tapering to a ripple.

One good pogrom
deserves another.

-r. miller

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