Why We Lock The Shed

He lies
on the couch
by the window,
supine (blinds
spun shut)
in the pre-sunrise.

What ripens
(and rottens) inside
ensues in chaos,
sharp like pine needles,
ever green (giving up little),
as in the scents of candles.

His penis is a prune,
heart in resin, a knot tied
in his spine. What sense
in ripping off that false S?
In loosening the reins
of the well-taught sniper?

Because It’s full
of power-tools
we won’t use,
charged battery
packs, drills,
buttons to press.

He meditates
on the nursery,
on the scent of urine,
on the shade of paint
awakening with the sun
ripping at the horizon.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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