Friday, April 3, 2015

April 3

In the tangled threads of spit, the net spreads
down your chin, down your body
to cling to your thighs.
That tendency you have to trip,
and in the process spatter juicy globs
at your own feet, then paint
wide wet saliva footprints across
the packed sand of the pavement.
Nothing in your life is absorbed,
nothing evaporates.
The viscous river bubbles from
between your legs, hangs from the tip
of your tongue, mirroring
the cavern it originated from. 

Splinters, shards, slivers, scars.
You are not one thing, you are
millions of things, many of them
similar but subtly different.
You are not a single utterance
but a cacophony. You leave
scraps and flecks of yourself
behind, bits which mix 
with the remains left by others
to accumulate in the corners,
to gather in the culverts.
Stuffed beneath bridges, snagged
in the hems of hurricane fences.
You spend the centuries breaking down
into ever smaller particles, 
being scattered to the farthest
reaches of the planet. No wonder
you find it difficult to concentrate.

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