Some Zero Game
Sat on a bench on the edge of a lawn,
nursing lemonade with gin,
toying with memory’s engine.
Why is yes minus es. Memory of
an echo echoes in the memory.
Swallows desolate the colonnade.
A distant couple’s berating passes out of hearing.
Little boys in the shadows
spit machineguns.
A bat slices the air,
reverberating in the ear.
Stars not yet there
in the purple poise. The gears,
the worms, the shifts, the buttons
down the suit disappear. This early fall
early evening suits itself, leaves
blowing across the lawn
like leaves
blowing across the lawn,
the soul the sole remains.
Horror Sleaze Trash 