Friday, September 2, 2011

The Heart Gnaws on Itself



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 a few rusted clouds.

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