are we simply flesh and blood?
Epithelium, fascia, muscle? A meshwork
of road maps and railway stations
for discoid corpuscles?

but to what import is probably not
a matter of importance.

outside, the cat purrs
starving.
her preference for milk-fish a far-fetched
notion amidst recession.

nearby
fire ants contrive with termites
of what better way to soften the foundation.

amidst uncertain darkness
we are still worth dying for
and the yellow lady sleeps
for yellow ribbons to live on

at the approach of dawn
A cauldron lid falls,
the agitated cymbals of a call
for whoever it tolls.

irene chicqui
6:27am aug032009


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