early december
and on and on, wondering
is it still?
oh yes. frosty lace, cloudy lingerie
melt and puddle. bright light, whiteness
drifts, and eyes open beneath,
under the slick shine of the black
grand piano, the strange
new carpet just as beige as the old
but not as soft
on my knees, my shins.
later my back bleeds.
spine scraping the plastic cream and eyes open,
above are tribal masks from pier one cultures
because it doesn't matter where, or what,
they ornament: like the instrument, the man
masks of seduction, grimace. but
smile: at the artificial flowers you planted
upon that open grave of last years, decades
early december and on and on
and this is a cold anniversary,
this is an oh yes.
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