one of these fifteen-minute eggs
Ira was, and such a temper
(though that is a word for
children and he a was a man
from the soles of his boots up and not to be
trifled with)
smashed the
windows, he did, in his house
on Azzarox Street, then held
her rigid, by her hair, as a
butterfly, pin-pricked, for
his devouring, framed by
the stairwell down to the
cellar and the furnace
burning red, her face held
too close to his flame, burning,
burning, burning
No comments:
Post a Comment