Buried in a half casket;
My little boy,
Swollen with makeup and injections,
Without the breath of life.

Satan’s irrigations,
The culmination
Of transparencies;
As the forgotten
Decide what’s wrong and right.

My little lonely forceps,
The brain of anticipation;
A cutting of the umbilical,
When we mistake our pain for grief.

The lightning rod seized
The four corners of the earth,
And a little bit of Heaven,
Spun down
By the fallen angels.


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