from he Feathered Sleep
There exist still
people who were born when the world
like a split fig, bequeathing aubergine center
was half the size
in a fabled time when
individuals could be appreciated
for more than their overt strip-tease
hot and pulsing on flashy poles oiled by media
consumption
my grandmother
with her perfect straight teeth
and flossy hair refusing to be tamed
called a beauty in her day
would never have held up now
a corn maiden left to rot in untended field
days then, of gentle reproaching and
beguiling unknown
how intoxicate to consider, what you cannot reach
where now, less possesses such mystery
in its hoard of foil
than generations guarding jailers keys to reaching secrets
you could think all your life you were set
in one direction like weather vane, divining nature
and upon the death-bed of your elders, find out
nothing you rolled in your palm, was true
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