…ing for the segment
of joy, hung like half a worm, still reaching
for earth
still alive and eating. Ah but sorrow is
hungry too. And, besides, even
curled back in this narrow leather, non-sterilized chair — legs crossed, hip
undone — they work the tattoo needles;
determined not to erase
anything like history: preserve, preserve, preserve.
And hollow out
the rose, petals flung somewhere far
away. The books are lonely. I am not a book
but…
J.D. Harms