Friday, June 27, 2008

My Violent death

My veranda burns away

the old flowers now swept away

incense burns into a heap of heaven

my room smells virtuous at long last

my death is already just a portrait

my room somebody else's refuge

my hard bound secrets read out

by little girls in my old neighbourhood

older woman discuss at tea times

the number of stab wounds on me

and then the degree of the burns on my feet

and they get it wrong each time by 7 and 2.

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