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Be careful, said the bottle miner,
Don’t let the dirt out —
It holds her eyes in place.
.
Neither oak gall, puffball, nor pulled leek.
Dainty and dirty.
Even in her tear ducts
The matter of
Our root planet.
Veins of refuse
Through the crocus-blossom neck.
.
If empty, the head’s bisque cup
Could fill with flower tea
Up to the aperture eyes.
Mannerly, we’d visit
Even though her former home
Was privy and trash pit.
.
Revived thing of play,
People your age go into the ground
Tomorrow.
.
Wash your face? Never.
Cede a skull? Not a doll.
.
Go on biting that elfin stone.
Without your child.
First published in Crazyhorse, No. 67, Spring, pp. 89-90. 2005. Subsequently published in Certain Uncollected Poems, Ostrakon Press, 2012.
I love it.
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