Intruder Alert

A conference theatre, unfilled, a field;
green folding chairs, strewn open, a crop.

Some poor woman, older, robust, sexless to me,
sits, cross angled, on one half closed.

The seat becomes a vice;
her fingers, trapped like rape, crushed.

Her shouts scorch, a boiling crescendo
of pain. People run. Not me.

I am stunned still,
taught by lust, by shame.

I can't forgive me this.
I can't.

image: po

Dylan Harris

it's my hands
my difficulty with melancholy
hence the coldness
fear in flight, god
dog sea
push pop

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