615 Readings

Bass Relief

Without hymns, in the post-traumatic glow,
I dim-out, float angel-wise toward the whiteness

& chrome. We work the paper-mill, you work the surgical
angle-in on an open heart, then scalpel, gloves,

ta-dah! The doctor is in. The morphine drip permits
more pain, so we creep out to the borders

smoke illicit cigarettes, sit on the hoods of cars
& inhale. Not every bottom lip’s a promise, not every

good boy does fine. Some faces hold the silence
of snowfall, some distill music, others disperse.
Posted 11/17/09
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