Twenty-two is the dying year.
We are all soldiers
In some war
We are all victims
or our mothers are all slaves
Somewhere, may be near
Or Not. Or in Montgomery. Or Easton.
Across the blue infinitesimal which
Exists to chastise
And then to saltlick up our cuts.
To do so requires a brutish love.
Are all dog and spindle thread
Slinkies slipping down the steps
And limbs all akimbo. Gangly
And gangrenous, starved at the
Heart and salivating.
our trash receptacles
Our dirty laundry bins we wear
Across town and through stinking
City streets to the launderette,
to the landfill.&