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an invitation to dance

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

Safe
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
worthless
by those we love.





ware

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

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

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



John Henry Calvinist