Wednesday, May 10, 2017

John M. Bennett, emblazed

emblazed

I seem to grime when
listpening foam when
chisels part my skull I
thin to rhyme my
crippled faucet with its
drain of sand your face
your bowl your stone
rolling in the stomach
named your bomb
,it's nor it it's what
jets out was writhen
on the wall but in
inside out