Pickled Heart

Evasion draws up the perineal Anubis:
if feels like it's time to dry
out of this moist livid lime,
with the green bulbs plumped to 
explode, to blind, to unbind.

Cautionary hail spreads the message:
glass is not for ever and neither is 
the beaten generation long severed
from surreal antipathies, wayward
wars against art and its patronuses. 

Cheap references take middling schools
and remind them that public service
is a rite to be performed by anointed
mortuary staff; prepare the linen for these
coffin desks -- our hearts would have gone out
if our minds could help going in.

A rumble in the chest has the analogous
purpose as the growling of the stomach:
is your beating humbled and hungry?
That's where my garlic meets my gnarled
licked out cone of a cavity, no longer rising
or falling, and plastered to whatever
reeks of light.

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