Wrinkled But Readable

The past was a souvenir we hung
brown and seeping in the hallway.

The eternal was a tattoo
we covered over with big Elvis lips.

The reverent was a frying pan
we sautéed rockfish in–

all the while cursing and singing
at the top of our lungs.

But even with all our precautions,
Shakespeare invited himself over for dinner

and we laughed and wept and sang
until the dawn in russet mantle clad

walked or’ the dew
on yon high eastern hill.


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