Thursday, December 01, 2022

Cercamoan

When the sweet air turns bitter

dogs bark in Occitan

and cats purr in Plattdeutsch.

Birds sing sotto voce.

My lungs, like plucked lyres,

rustle like threads thru dead leaves.


Mother has a hole in her abdomen

the size of a pugilist's fist with

the face of Jupiter's hurricane.


When the sweet air turns bitter

I sing about dogs and cats

with lost tongues as the hurricane's

bloodshot eye burns dead leaves.


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