Dripping wine.

Dripping onto my tongue

like a catalyst.

My children will bite your dogs

in processionals

and bigotry,

filing their metamorphosis away

for another day,

while I lounge

reading Kafka.

Seventy steep forgivenesses

surely seem enough

don’t they?

Forty would suffice,

as long as they were stripes,

like bloody roman numerals

on your back.

And there’s a room

painted eggshell somewhere

that is full of

the unsuspecting,

and fortified

with ignorance,

to beat away their



Love you, too

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