ACID JAZZ AND AN AXE WOUND
Open up my ribcage to display
a paint palette, adorned with the crimson
of navy and green of the through.
Eloped to the stained bone of the you
as it blinks, eating sand and caressing hymen
in lazy fits of ripe dismay.
We appreciate the hiss of wind that
flutters through the wound in the throat,
a cloak of hazel; dry; net.
Don’t whistle without a care,
we’ll die and so will you.
Lewis Dalton
