The Hammer


Her skull was a storm when the dead wrapped in cellophane
pressed their matrix of grief
up through the cold earth, wet with night
and the black cylinders of gun powder-fire-tubes
whose crisp grit popped and jumped under the snap of twigs and sticks
On the forest floor the electric bonds
shot across the skin on the ground
with the spreading arms of angular lightning
burning a path through the trees
and turning the heart of the forest into black vinyl
We thought that only if our words had wings
they might beat back like bombarding hawks of prey
the spreading infested ink particulates
that now lodge under the ridge beam of mens' shoulders
and beneath the housing of soft-wired-eyes
They could no longer make the sound of men
in the storm of this their swimming discord
swinging the heart ache
and her head was swimming
with the those color photons of adrenaline
pumping in vascular alarm
When the dead crawled from their tombs
like swimmers stepping up out of a lake at night
their inked silhouettes were too restless
for the arms of their graves
when she looked and saw, she knew her heart was now a hammer
rushing gun metal through her members
sending time into its new slow motion passage
this, she would learn as her means to an end

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