Tuesday, July 17, 2012

poem || Keith Higginbotham


sun fuck

the glass telephone black b/w
rifle; in, sleep—


jests perch on
wind pews or

blood of words
nipples stained: 

the bar beating
light table 

branches the calliope
behind shoulders of chairs


river of beds the popcorn wind
flicker of naked twigs

spotlight teenage ledges the
ground is gone

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