 
 
 
Make blind motions
Tremble fake spasm of godbound joy
Some stranger, his neck burned red and
Empty of a sweet whistle’s song
My street is cracked with desires
Bared-tooth answered prayers
Some stranger, his champion wrecked and
Set aside wreathed in ragged tears
The mass becomes critical
Everywhere all at once a beehive mind
With lawnmower hands whirling over
The gravesite, the flowers, the stones
Text and Images © Andrew Auten – All Rights Reserved
