–because Richard Corey is the true Jehovah
We walk down the blue-lined streets of litter and tension,
the sky exhausted and white haired.
They told me the earth was a living beast
riding a tortoise shell across the light of space,
the shell old and degraded, the tortoise long gone,
only the tusks of an elephant spiking its center.
No elephant. No tortoise. The shadows of dawn
calm, a poodle mating with a shepherd, the house
on the corner bright with lights of unhappiness.
Can you not smell the carcasses of thick gray skin,
the acid in the water taking out a memory of fish?
Everywhere a hand torments itself with touch,
the ears the noise of poverty and disuse,
taste a matter for another time. The poodle
lets go and the shepherd rushes to the alley
in search of the smell and the bones piled there.
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