Poetry

An autopsy was being conducted 
with brutality 
to silence the rising dialogue, 
 
pulling out the lethal crunch 
of scripted history. 
You want the kiss of a parting grain. 
 
A secondhand face crops 
up in a newspaper. Are you ashamed 
of curtains? They have covered 
 
all the skeletons. The tangerines, 
why do I remember them 
like juicy lips in dark. 
 
We are going to bungle together, 
decked up to receive the body 
of a honed player.