the night had eyes like jesus in a cornfield
open wide
with threats of fire

eliminate

the call of the tenders of our mercifree moments
broken down by the endless challenges of their betters

i'd gladly swallow them all in a moment of

this is the line composed to melt you
and this is the line that softens the burn
and this is the line that identifies my weakness
and this is the one i add
intended for later deletion

(though such deletions are often false)

because the rhyme

now two years gone
patient in its coming
has been forgotten

and all that is known
soft in the shells that house it
is a yolk to be poached
and never more than exactly
that
thing

so strong
that after all of these lines
it demands

that i speak this
simple fact
and obtuse word
that rhymes with deletion

these are the hands
this is my

Timestamp: 11.02.06 at 01:21 AM. Filed under: Poetry.