Alex Lemon



Sprawled, a puzzle thrown to wind, bodies fill the meadow

            like litter, garbage. All of the gods have fallen,

no one can hum a tune.


Beyond the choking fence cars wander,

each passing mile our futures become moans.


Even the clouds are pink with bleeding.


Now, listen to the rustling. Trash

is being rifled through: renamed,

it can never be taken,

never thrown away.


Here, we cannot even own our flesh.


Insides like fruit, taste, persevere.

Blade sharp as angst. Mangoes & plums,

blinding shimmer of sweaty thighs.


Pain fragments into darkness, a stone’s soft side.

Teeth yellowed and broken, we dream of sun washed corn.


Angles, degrees, the yielding intensity of time.

Severed in the most intricate geometry,

grass pierces the air in cuts so small

we cannot know the sacrifice in this religion.

Copyright © 2003 Alex Lemon.  All Rights Reserved.

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