No, it’s not pornography.
The suture hardly holds.
It sags like old glass.
Cut in half,
A smile becomes sellable.
No, not ghosts.
The laundry of the dead,
Listing in the wind.
Stains quiet in early light.
Among the eyeless dolls
And unpriced socks.
Hit with limbo,
The body grows damp.
No, call it a garden,
Where sallow flowers bloom
Like low wattage bulbs.
Impressed. Really evocative. Collection forthcoming?