poem: this is what i am doing instead of writing my paper

five-thousand little fingerprints ringing around

the inside of my head. their worth

rung out to ladders and crystal dish-clothes where

one china plate slipped and shards

made blood

we all made blood, through the touching singing

whispers in my head.

called nicely: poetry

called cynically: otherness

mostly, i say, it is just a trapsing melancholy

staring out


dead trees waving

maiden-dead branches at a Sky with

once-virgin eyes

who has now seen too much.

we all made blood

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