with bloody hands i shape the clay
the tunnel of lonely ghosts howls. of imperfect ghostlike figures
looming in the shadows
with hunched shoulders
or dancing, wispy banshees
their eyes averted from
the bright-buttoned drum major
that is the work for daily bread.
I imagine giving them all up,
freeing myself by cutting the tie--
I see my own hand severed at the wrist
Copyright Jamie Laurens and Waste and Praise contributors. All rights reserved by individual artists.
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