Like a cult in a car wash you drink
wax and foam - suck up sponge
liquid - slowly dry. These unsettling
stomachs breathe something
like roadkill. Not at all
anniversaries. No rings,
no phones.
When the clock strikes,
hours of minutes from now,
the reverberations carry a ring
through the puncture wound
in your ear drum
all through your head
till the ring settles down on the stomach's
floor. On the floor
is a tiny excuse to be bitten
by bugs or to bite that claimant
in the cloth - there's a lesson
to wring out these clothes. To ring
the sound further away and to
boomerang.
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