Frass
by Corey Mesler


I sweat out
of myself
the best parts.
My pen drips
with humors,
ghastly loss.
Here, on the page,
it seems worse
than it is.
I am calmer here,
though. Nights
when the
storms gather like
vulture's cries
and my wife turns
to me with
an armload of
ammunition.
I loosen up, too much
and I can't walk
or hold a book.
The church of the
world is closed
to me. I must
worship elsewhere.
I can't talk about it,
sound affects.
I love you.






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