Chain People


Many a while I singe myself alone
Thinking of your weary heart,
The flowers in your ears,
The moan that hums behind your voice,
Calling my forehead eye, siren
Clasped by the noise.

There’s a passion for such things,
The lower noises murmuring
Like the thoughts of children,
The tiniest of echoes that spring
Off our hands and seed themselves
In our making, and stay hidden there

In our furrows. Your hidden self,
Bobbing in panic and gurgling,
Your unconscious scream to the
Frequencies of dogs like me
Scratching at our own cell doors
And barking poems. Hinges

Creak louder now as my prison
Body comes to cry in my arms:

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