tromping, and sin

 

between storefronts...

palatial war occurs

this, and each block
an iconoclast nation
of nothing

breathing quiet
feudal, forlorn
---
the ex-whore dissolves
like diaphanous spores
into
ex-no-more, lurching
(don't it lurch)

 

and licking leeching
splitting
hair, in the gray mist
mountain dawn
wearing cold shoes
---
people as mites
stomaching the ashy shit
unnoticed loss
scavenged