3.09.2011

Pluto's Not a Planet (Anymore)

The townie counters, posts a rebuttal.
"Who are you to dream of Artemis?"
An artificial offering to a god too high to care
in the form of time and street soot
wiped from white-topped appliances
fails to sate the blood's shameful call.
"Your form has less splendor by the syllable."
There's little left to argue.
There's no one left who cares.

The townie counters, rolls over in bed.
There will be other chances to knock
down doors begging to be skipped.
For now it's a nap, a brief wrestle with
a salty subconscious too laden with loss
to be the sleep of the just. There is rhyme
and there is reason, but they're both
so out of reach.

The townie cowers, masks his queer pain.
There will be a reckoning.
No one gets away forever.
In the meantime if you miss her
read the book of Revelations.
She's in it a lot
along with her horses;
a nightcap; a footnote; a brief taste
of cyanide.

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