spit apart
                          the rhyme

                                      I have a scheme

                                             the dialect of thyme
                              mother grew-

                                             as my schema lay naked
                          in a room of napalm,

                                             childhood darts
                          stick like syringes
                          in plaster.

                                             A rhyme spit
                          in a turned palm:


                          scarab lit, our mouths
                                hieroglyphic as dirges
                                    closed around gallstone fingers
                          we are               threadbare bodies
                          of locust trees,
                          nocturnal plumage,

                          labia prayers to papyrus
                          flanks,     embalmed
                                stains of

                          taste. pomegranate & feline.

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