Theatre of Cruelty
I hang out in a cement cylinder. Curled
into my harpsichord at the bottom
of the trees. I don’t care that no one hears
the cry of the alligator. He ate
the thumb of a boy, which is nothing.
It is the size of its eyes that provoke me.
My mother rises up in me, I become
two-headed, like a delicacy. I am a pro
at avalanches. Snow rages like words
or is it the other way around?
There is a caterpillar at the threshold.
I think it sees me as someone to pity.
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