DEATH sheltered upon the spit of dying souls;
sun and heat a giant cat with one flat foot
upon a devil’s wing — the homosexual and
amorous spirits that cross a garden in dead
of night make scary sounds.
my throat an elevator from heaven descending
toward hell with every swallow; my non-
existent ring upon a broken finger as throbbing
sexual oysters.
to smell the clean spirit of angels are as hanging
clothes upon a clothesline within a Spring’s breeze.
:: 09.21.2020 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 