Monday, September 21, 2015


Dim candlelight flickers and spills 
onto roomfuls of shells,
chipped and moonpink,

which line repeating warped wood tables— 

as if for sale, but not—
in some 
dingy street- 
corner curiosity shop

whose grim brick 
walls seem to slither back 
and back
without stopping;

which first makes you sick, 
and then suddenly 
fiendish—to leap up and 
go running

back outside—and just 
start obsessively, 
ghoulishly digging
for old poets' bones.