Dirty Ground

Every so often,
bulbs would rust and transform
into leaves of the deceased

Deceased, they were drawn out
to the river where the gulls
came to pick at their fine lines

Continuously, this river would regurgitate
decades’ worth of fingers;
perished fingers of those threatening
to retrieve their deceased bulbs
from the gulls.

Fingers, uselessly spanning miles
of ocean,
of lake,
of water;
to poach what is not theirs

Herrings, manipulated by glass, structured
to revert to thin, untaught veneer
as it is written

And those fingers of those who cannot fathom
this true form of a rusted bulb
no longer of use,
may you never find yourselves
in the rivers of immaculacy
no longer purified.


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