Stacking (poem)

Two-hundred newly blind internees

improvising calling the sight they say

white madness on the radio

When I was eleven years old and the privacy

of one of the last bus stops

the autoerotic, lumbering hum and lull

of this enormous brown-seated --

Oh, how the frosting finds the cake

the fork the mouth

and you my witness

you perfecting your weekly sermon

in underwear, your hands gesturing

insane shadows on the salmon walls

and you advise the medicine cabinet

that even in their right mind

certainly the congregation

would engage another fetish

if you stayed just one more hour

tending the newly minted,

calming the rape of this bride

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