Saturday, January 21, 2017

inverted midas

everything touched turns to
body crumpled like a hundred dollar bill
at the bottom of the stairs. 
her head growing golden 
and heavy in my hands, her eyes
carot'd, the smears on the tile 
plated. she's got 
treasure running down her face now and
i've never seen such a fortune 
at one time so, naturally, it haunts me. 

my fingertips laden with coin;
i slide my hands in my pockets and 
those turn gold too. 
i walk down the street with the weight of them, 
both of them.
death won't stop stalking the back property line, all pacing and
i have tried to live my life avoiding blood but
it is everywhere,
in the garden, 
inside of other people.

like a pool of treasure 
at the bottom of the stairs.

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