AUTOBIOGRAPHY 1
Duane Locke
A whisper of words that never came
From a mouth, but from a “for rent” sign
Stuck through a lamb in a stained glass window.
The street’s blood vessels are crawling
Out of the city’s body to bite apples
And twists around the hips of darkness.
Again, I invoke the shadows of wine
To wrap around the absent breasts
Whose left hand strokes the light bulb.
Will the mauve mausoleum of her lips
Become my wristwatch, manic in
Disobedience to numbers and circuses.
