early darkness bloomsout
growing deeper and darker night and day;
circular death-irises continue to swoop and swirl in the wind,
as the barelyalive dried-up carcasses of severed deadveined leaves flit
along the hard solid ground of Fall’s
annual mutation into Winter;
sundowns and nothingnesses straight ahead;
pulled puppyteeth stain alabaster carpets
with russet blotches—I knew,
and I still know, of the emptiness
of us all, eventual rock then sand and dust;
the haunted hospitals, the general
failings of quality; this is the downslope
of a rollercoaster; my head is lodged forever at The Brokensoul Inn—
but I know what I know and I know
I am not Joseph Stalin
or an Iodine God.
