The Ache is to Become


44

the cuckold scatters crusts of bread
/ is not amused

to see the goslings' offered throats
spread pink and blue,

& nip his fingernails / if left unguarded.

/ /

Over the face of the waters

iridescent bulls-eye
slicks are centered on each bobbing crumb.

The edges we would waste / become
the foci of each bloated universe.

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