this partially-beheaded universe

the admonition
of a blade of grass.

the hateful speed
of a neoplasm.

the sense that spring itself
is an infection.

the plea of everyone
for unity parked on cracking ice.

the telephone hot with
blood of argument.

the argument hot with
blood of betrayal, misuse, both.

the voice in the voice mail, breaking with tears,
announcing the long-expected end of the thing.

the cabbie screaming about a prostitute,
swerving irresponsibly through the lanes,
and you thinking
yes yes, so this is how it ends.

I have a second-cousin
said he saw
Jim Morrison
in an Arby’s
in Jackson Heights
and I believe
he’s right.


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