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an invitation to dance

silent and hot
in the noonday sun
the empty room buried
black with appeasement
and dust.

from all but
ourselves, and gilded
with recriminations
there will be space,
but no time we
can capture.

Late, we
are too late,
children, playing
sterile games judged
by those we love.


Last night,
a dog gnawed my leg off.
I had the marrow for breakfast
and carry it around over my shoulder.

Look, you can tear at it yourself,
the blood comes off in layers,
and there's hair
under the skin.

I could burn

for nights spent
without sleep, ruminating
methane through the guts
of memories, but

could not help turn
 flesh into fowl, nor cheapen the trade
sufficiently I think too much
 for want of sport

John Henry Calvinist