Sunday, March 27, 2011

Of New Orleans.

Over time the heart develops an irregular valve--
An extra oath.

It hushes its own rifled respirations, warmed slew of slushes,
Bygone and pearline pinked gut punches.

To look now you'd swear you were facing a Polidori
From that crumpled bit

Of New Orleans--

It is after all a physical place--a thing

Inundated with verdant swill--look and smell,

With dreams--

With dreams.

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