Jim Rioux

In Issue 3 on May 1, 2009 at 11:00 am


Behind my eyes, slugs haul the moon,
my spine a godsnapped whip…The sky
knows no language— examine then
these specimens: my blood hum-hungry,
climbing high into the night, the earth
a scorched-black bible…I confess
only to the heresy of sloth,
the orthodoxy of oblivion.
I’ll say lonely, but mean something
else: days hinged clutch by clutch
with alien hands, the mind blooming
hollow over specificity…
Lord, my tongue is pierced with bird bones—
forgive me then these singing teeth.

  1. Love the last two lines–beautiful!

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