By Richard Mather
Beneath a red lightbulb
innumerable doves swim as if
in a cold, gold sun.
Birth, creation,
a ruinous origination.
Decomposition settles in.
Bibulous boozers scratch at beer,
flick the air with brown fingers.
Intemperate cuckolds.
“Declare your bones,”
they say in whispers
thick as honey.
Time is arrested
as the production of long shadows
hushes the brown room,
but not the annelid which eats the dirt
that falls from the shade
like black snow.
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