Treasure Island

Luca Menin


Waste


Waste at the door
Drunk of apple core,
spiting seeds of the last tree.
The hands hold the head,
resting like mat at the front steps.
The neighbours are awake
not eyes not faces
voices lost place
the body held tight.
Surrounded by walls,
like a fox in the box
Swallow the tongue
Test dry, smell spice
To reach to touch the hungry hutch
in the starving cupboard
Bubble popping my eyes close.
My head craves
water quenches fire warms
alcohol wounds.

Submitted: Sunday, February 17, 2013

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