by David Ackley
Save your delirium
scrabbling at the glass
your darkness
coiled hissing in its corner
for corpse orations
staked in the heart of verbs
sun unsheathed
the blistering,
the seething streets
Poor Will, whipped
in this siege and
seethe of silence.
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Poor Will and his corpse orations, hot and cold and delirious at once.
The language here is deliciously choreographed.
Well done.
Thanks Gloria and James for the read and kind words.