Saturday, July 25, 2015


Must not forget them,
those things rotting in you.
All that leave you
stuck in the mote.
Language is lost
in the dark corner!
Just move
the expired milk
over to the left
and you will discover
the perfect remedy
for hunger or malaise
isn't last night’s
buffalo chicken salad,
your father’s
veal parmigiana
or your daughter’s
cheese pizza,
but all that have
stood neglected
in the back waiting
to be finally let go of
or perhaps to be relished
for the last time—
for it wasn't hunger
that woke you up
in the middle of the night
but the middle, the marrow
of rushing memories.

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