![]() ![]() In the dank core of a growled-down blues lyric, in Well, a tomb that droops deeper as I reach? It seems I’m breathless as well, Is there a bottom to this sand, this road dirt, this alley, this lurching air? IsĪ father always below me, lifting a blanched white hand from the bottom of a God I know said let’s bury him deep, so now he is far under everything. ![]() Only way to resurrect my father is to claw away at what covers him, the only The gilt murderer, the sole skin on earth that refuses its scar. I wonder if theĭesert, a hundred grandiose death-drops below us, is still that celluloid desert, The gut of a turbulent Boeing-keyboarding, wrestling dactyls. In the throes of my 41st fatherless Tuesday, I am strapped deep and down in (Golden shovel on a line from Vera Nazarian’s Dreams of the Compass Rose) ![]()
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