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"Untitled II" & "Untitled III" by Dave Serrette



Untitled II


The skin across my face

Is hot and dry and drawn

The hairs of my beard

Itch in singularity

And I just can't

Stop

Scratching


These are bad moon days

When my skin doesn't fit

And my fur won't fluff

And I flex the muscles

Which hold my body tight In hopes it will all split

And fall away

And shed

And slough

And die

And be left

To an abandoned corner

Of the old shed

The one with the moss

On the old gray doors


Perhaps one day

Tonight or tomorrow

Or one day next week

My eyes will focus better

And my bones

Will not shiver

Without cause

Untitled III


Strip somber sleeves and show scars of

Scared and sacred sanctuary where

Old ghosts drift back and fro and down

Through muslin hallways hanging onto

Bits of broken wax fruit that cling to

Black velvet paintings like a Rembrandt

Against the walls of the glassy sunshine.


Pull the pile of shag through knotted up toes

Green as golden brown Bermuda grass

That never quite grew as well as on the

Golf course just yards away from the house

That we all lived in for just a couple of

Sad and worrying years before fortune

Found us and told us we were special.

If I could do it all over again at least once more

Maybe no one would write my name down

In their little black books for black-balled

Writers who just wanted someone to praise

Stories and poems that dripped from

Fingertips onto cathode ray computer screens

In the wee hours when they were truly alone.


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