Friday, September 2, 2011

The Heart Gnaws on Itself



Red Shuttleworth






The Heart Gnaws on Itself

No more bed-bouncing love storms.  

Dead town.

Please use the side door.
lost prom tickets, rustling weeds,
a hammock with a hole,
birth certificate ashes softly blow across
the floor of the train station.

The sun flashes off rust-flake clouds.

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