Insecticide #17

Tensions ease but friendships do not fail;
another hour, another light burned out in the living room
keeping it just dark enough that I can’t think
where I left my other sock.

Hope cried out to me, once, in the desert
with a beaming moon; bleeding inscriptions
that vaguely pronounced the theory of

Vagabonds and prostitutes,

I come alive with chemotherapy,
foot snare and airplane runways
zooming down the Eastern highways
and the rabbits all wore hiccup suits.

Shone in shorn in should I
take the dive, plunge into
the eternal black and without splash,

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