This is the soft hoarse whisper of these times:
its cup full of succulent summer grape
no longer laced with Being’s false treason,
the braces of its skull bone corset bent,
unloosened to the warm, wet wind that seeps
across its throat with a caress of steel.
27 AUG 2003
© 2003 – 2017, John Litzenberg. All rights reserved.
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