Arguments with destiny: 19

In the colony of the body,
everything that grows
is offering—

In the mortised joints
between webs of sugar and salt,
gears turn and the gates

sluice bile from the honey,
or cloudy froth. Broody
liver, spleen’s

dark halves: like serfs
to a feudal lord, we hold up
the unfinished, we ask for time.

 

In response to Via Negativa: (De)composition.

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