Psychometrics of a Refugee
the inkblot of teen secrets.
Doc, it looks like a cave
to stow away
a summer whose red plastic ball
still tumbles heartbeats around.
In the empty space
God resides, and inside
an abstract of my tenement.
I negotiate its staircase.
My hands barely hold those vacant cartons
you want for storing my home.
Doc, playing tarots
with my pet witch?
Last night I counted Four, Three, Two…
to lose sight on
my shadow, pagan, mating with my
other silhouettes at the Stonehenge.
I shall always see a butterfly in a Rorschach Test, and the word ‘Memory’
will feel my nostrils with the ghost fragrance of a zoo.
A Bullet Not For The Bystanders
‘A wrong blood’, they say to the widow.
The bat in the brittle heart of hers battles the harsh
daylight. What is a…
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