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The trees sketch their profiles
of suspects–which takes some time
obviously but they don’t care—an unlikely
albeit asymmetrical consensus–not caring
which is why the night
is so bitter and the bitter
its shimmering mulch

And my prayers are just as good
as my neighbor’s and my neighbor’s as
the night guard’s at the stray thoughts museum
the night guard’s as the operatic email’s prayer
the email’s as the infernal order of relentlessness
the infernaltarians’ as the googlable cognitarians’
all of the googleables’ prayers as the eternal heretics’
the heretical as the baubles’ among the ruins
the baubly prayers as the babbling oracular mellifluous brooks
as history as the long winded much dissed hissing radiator’s prayer
the radiator as the glyphs of the roiling of the overwrought tree’s prayers
as if overwrought is a bad thing or good in contrast to how she spooned jammy blood
from her open wound into the cup of the narcissist’s tea without saying a word
then stirred which of course I can only relay from the narcissist’s telling
my prayers just as good as the narcissist’s and it’s true I’m the narcissist the wound
the tea and so brightly the host and the spider above the door and the pig-rider in the yard
in a different story about grief and fallowness and how to blossom like an idea in hell
by which was meant netherworld
or down below

(first line of each stanza chanced from Joyce Mansour)

1 thought on “ANASYRMA

  1. So effing good, thunderbitch.

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