is it in the breast?
I have plowed away shards
of my own sallowed bones-
desperately seeking the roots
to pluck them out from me.
holding a poultice to the gap
in my chest, wetness leaks
on to my hands.
it is hot and smells of rotting lies.
I have gouged from myself the
tarred vessels of another man.
what is left behind is a red flower pot.
I am replanting a fern in the clay.
remember when you taught me
how to throw?
we made bowls and yours
was prettier than mine.


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