12

through the skull of phineas gage

 

like a javelin I go     taking an eye
a teacup of brain

landing eighty feet away

someday they’ll find us
polished in your daguerreotype
a handsome rake     clasping
his smooth iron love

they’ll want to know why

our secret is forged
stronger than my wicked point

you won’t tell them

how the snap of gunpowder still thrills us
how we carry the weight of forgotten sand

you won’t tell them
the good eye relentlessly probes

watching for death’s arbitrary     blast

 

 

right hand pointing — late trains

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