Mrityu

I slay the words. Dust settles on the knife.
Motes of turgid light stream from the window,
wrap around sentences that knot
in mess of allusions. Voice falters,

hushed silence tears the throat, shreds
of the poem coagulate the bloodstream.
Just when I think I have emptied the bin
of life, reed dry and hollow, breast

shrivels, milk chalks my tongue.
I leave my shell on the tree, track myself
down the path to the woods of smoke
where the flesh under my skin roasts.

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