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Sport 41: 2013
Rumour Terminator
Rumour Terminator
I slip my hands inside
the little red trees of my lungs.
I am my own cork vest.
I am my own rain of comets.
I try not to think of Kronos,
but I too need to ice and lick the moment.
On Christmas morning the last gift was from him.
It was a sickle, just like his.
Once I held a knife and looked at it for a very long time.
A street surfaced, brick by brick,
and I walked down it without breathing.
Thunder—look up: a whale slowly somersaulting through the sky.