star foil frappé

we are all transience
waiting to happen

a shooting hardens into a moral expense
cutting and loathed

a gutting shorthand anchored in a heart
prickly and petty

a persistent vicar of bastard pipe nets cast
dreamlike and bleak

a dirge a dirge a dirge
stark
dark

What I’m Reading:

I discovered violence
which lay, like pointed orchids under the scab
of the Earth, in me,
and the violence was good, and better.

— Fanny Howe / “The Original”