John Grey

Sam the Man

Couldn’t begrudge
his demons
lowering dead bodies
deep in the brain’s
demonic rivers,
or tossing them into
its ditch of flesh,
didn’t know how to pray,
his childhood
fell to the rear,
dropped into hell-fire,
and there was
the adult that never was,
the soul,
for lack of which,
he lived
with a basement cellar,
an old refrigerator,
full of names.

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