Monday, July 20, 2015

Boggess of the Abbey

Boggess of the Abbey

Dawn and i took turns pointing out old bottles and
cans whoever had left in the bog. all decades were
covered, ferns and moss, get your vegetables, baby.
take your time, i am a bottle tween the lips of them
inured to violence, to what gaping mouths, all asking.

to a room let in the farmland, KY; i am pretty fresh,
only the insides are dirty. you ought to have reused
me. i am a Tupperware bowl—tossed into a swamp.
i wld not have broken down for fifteen hundred
years, but you regard me as disposable—hell, even
Elijah might not come to my table, set with them
dollar store place-settings. this meal of ardour,

i am the least expectant, i am sure. and i would be
so embarrassed to share breath in a room with the
man who made me so happy, i thrust him to the
button willows, since he did not pretend to
me to some less holy abbess or his fancy,
new, shiny abyss.

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