And the month of May as Well

Memorial Day:

The fountain water driggles

Like children in the river,

Hands outstretched, vectors

Of laughter – arrows


Pointed into the heart

Of my shame. Three towers

One rectangular, one octagonal,

One in the baptist point 


Of a well-lit scandal. Dynasties,

Their own names hidden,

And their secret pleasures,

In webs of folklore dancing below.


The scene, the scene. Everything

Conspiring; conspiring all

At once to create

The scene. No parts.


They simply sat too close.

I was disgusted, I moved.

This, I learned, was disgusting.

I left the scene.


Or wanted to. Blink

And it could be gone

The dream that life

Is a dream, to wake up


Into a dream; life,

The dream, all the 

Content missing,

Evaporated into a dream

Of its own.




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