Shake nightmares from cloves of sleep,
unchain the eyes
and smother cogs in cotton.
Let the scalpel brush its tinny finger
over mulched pages of puzzles,
grief always played at dead ends.
Lost in sewers
a swan drifts toward the carvery,
to jelly and drugs,
slopping inside a tattooed shell.
Twist toe tags into furry coils of wheat,
there lies less than a soul
surrounded by ivory,
gone to find honey for its wounds...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
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