Elegy 864

I dream you're dead; wake into all the rooms I've
never left, stretching in every direction frosted pins
of stars, each driven up to my neck in scar tissue and
wadded tears. The doctors can do nothing for me. Cause
and effect are a simpering line I can trace from icing
dangling from your full fruit lips plump with awful,
almost even so I can stand. Then this is the moment to
strike. Mom lops off a sleeve to rosy wax skin
watching dead in the eye the burned but still supple
nimbus, a cumulus oscillating with your cool picked
waves vexations and the xanax we foster. The doctors
in copters astonish teeth lying to you through rot and
every hole in the trucks walking for a long-time down
Cooper Foster. Holes wear your red your blue and white
baseball cap what could be called the wrong way.
Backwards. Where did she come from? And what if she
should die here?



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Lewis LaCook

net artist, poet, freelance web developer/programmer

http://www.lewislacook.com/

Stamen Pistol: http://stamenpistol.blogspot.com/

Database_shortPoems:: http://www.lewislacook.com/poems/shortpoems.php

Sidereality: http://www.sidereality.com/



tubulence artist studio: http://turbulence.org/studios/lacook/index.html





















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