It Is Still Dark

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511

In your confidential skin you
unscrew bad laughter you
produce a flower from
under a door where
all is now lost
pushing onward toward departure
we shoulder your flying heart and
prefer farewell to gliding
here is where we exit, quacking.

512

doorway thumbs akimbo
our palms outstretched
we weigh ourselves down
in spoiled sovereigns and priestly agony
our captured eye is
closed tightly it is a bloated, self-important dwarf
with the head of a dog
and wearing the socks of simians
we are all god's error.