AUTOBIOGRAPHY 4
Duane Locke
It is the hour when
The tense laurel wreath
Around the knee slips to the ankle.
When a choir of clocks
Tremble inside the foot.
The shoe begs the prophet for a penny.
The rag doll on the backseat
Of a star traveling away
From the earth washes her hair.
The eyes come to a boil,
Evaporated into steam,
Scalded the dry kisses of the ditch.
