by Renwick Berchild

Alleviate me, with a foghorn. Swept up compilations hound
and dog me desperately, so maybe extend a forlorn sound.
The gulch, eager to get this body to the big river, and out to
sea – see, haven’t I met this moment before? Myself upon
bruised knees, acquiescing to the tug, waiting for the push
to tip me over and roll me, watch the thunder sundering an
octagonal wall, rivening it center and through, sensing the
hailed arm reaching out under the blue light of mechanical
expectancy blooming with the future ghosts shaped by din
fanatical and addictively unappealing. I wrap stones round
my wrists, and chatter the bangles with disdain; obligation
throws the rope into the tide I’m caught in, and every time I
am oaf enough to grip the rope, instead of falling on a wave.  

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