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The renunciation

The renunciation chafes
after a while. Rain maybes
treelines slim and noxious,
so houses might pop up
and clean the grass with
streets. I’m alive

somewhere in there:
buzzing and crackling
like any electric
in-between. She puts
her hands right through
me, breaking me

up. The tornado of 1924.
Everything gets torn down.

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Posted by Lewis LaCook at 9:35 am | Postmodern Poetry | Permalink

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