3rd House Down From The Corner Behind The Red Door

Who would miss it if it wasn’t gone?

The explicit funk: 8000 days of raw family.


Sun-soaked confetti, dander;

The very skin


Of  loss. Separate men

In translation: Their malt language


Derived from too much proof–

The unintelligible history of blood.


Un-cooked  Easter eggs, lost teeth, vomit;

The lemon scent of absence. Dwindling


Cat bones in a dank basement,

Some dark quality of hunger,


The book of dust: Hundred-year Bible,

Closed, with the cold coming through


Yellow life-times. A burlap curtain.

Also closed: Mama,


The blown art of cigarillos,

A nicotine chapel; Her breath stain


Of fried perfume and undisputed smoke.

Precious chaos, touch of kin;


Volume. Lung & loin

Splatter. Wetness.


The combined fragrance–

Wall-to-wall pulpits. Spill.

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