hornets made a home in the unused equipment

I close my eyes against the flood
but have no eyes to close.
I swing my fist —
my armless fist —
at Satan’s faceless nose.

In fish-stink markets
drunk again
unready for attack
I vomit down the wishing well;
dull animal stares back.

These forms arising from within:
illusion without end.
These animals were always mine
to butcher, or befriend.

I do not mind:
This hole, this heart,
the knots were loosely tied.
The desert’s lip is at my boot,
machete by my side.

Share on Facebook0Tweet about this on TwitterShare on Reddit0Pin on Pinterest0Email this to someone

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

*