Tuesday, February 23, 2010

The Water Globe ~ Carly Hind


You spilled your brains in the street
Whilst I counted back from one hundred-
In barely an utterance.
The numbers slipped around my tongue,
Sharp like the scraping of burnt toast.

There were already flowers at your feet,
And the graffiti sketch of funerary art
For public mourning.
Afterwards they built you a Taj Mahal,
A mausoleum of white tents and tape.

Passing eyes rolled like polished globes,
Drifting with the calm shake of snow-
Where you lived,
Where the deeply splintered keel
Raged against leaning frozen surf.



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