TILT TILT
porcupined in quills past
as nails recall the traits
that were not time’s perforce
but in time produced
what quills always deliver
the sepsis of the wild genes
that is nurture’s true harvest
memory reminds
you are what you are
what you were before you were
what you are now
and then …
[this was written on the toilet
dictated in the time it took for
my pinball mind to bounce and rattle
until the machine cried TILT TILT
and in all of forty five seconds
a new poem was delivered
steaming …]
postscript
then the night closed in and
it slept on a freshly ironed sheet
until
lit by your eye was resurrected
TILT TILT
you may cry all you want
the lint is bound in iodine
sarcophagus tight
in the book of the desiccated
the dust settles
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