James Grinwis

SELF IN WHICH A TRUCKLOAD OF TOXINS SPILLS

 

Driving to the city listening to the quartet.

I have my dog and honey barbecue chips,
coffee in a handsome paper cup.

Setting small fires throughout the town, the angry children.

On my street glaciologists come and go. Numbers everywhere,
map digits. Egyptologists. Half of life gone, undone.

The doomster in his bee-coated buggy speaks: it is time.

Blue cloud on stork hill. Petite wife rubbing oil into her belly.

Durable power of attorney? No, a very unendurable power of attorney
of sticks lit and fizzing eons.

Massive silence?

Or will something happen to my stuff.

To cast off everything or not to cast.

 

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