Numbers crumble with rows of houses,
a shred of bell tower peals
against the truant head of twenty-nine;
non-est inventus, uninhabited torsos
claim squatting rights.
lie among their realms of roost and plot,
kitchen pots, roasted brick, parks
with smoking grass, see-saws hot to touch,
voids shriek raucous
denunciations to whom-ever, so-and-such.
Salami begs for one more chew,
hot mustard on taste buds
but her teeth are in her throat–
one-thousand and four chokes.
The severed arm of five-thousand
flexes fingers to grasp the grocers’ bag that implores
oranges and tomatoes, ‘come back, come back’.
Double digits lie, awkward,
improbable positions for kings, all,
queued for first dibs on ascension,
the Archangel’s list a half-hearted affair:
who is holy?
the temptation to say ‘God’s will’
that blithe dismissal in warfare.
Instead, perhaps, he could use even numbers,
odd ones out.
A.S. DeWitt Angel has been writing…
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