Crossroads

This is the last time
we'll walk in the ghost, the only
incident to curb
the appetite. So is
the morning wail: so,
so. Glisten this
grey river awash in
metal. The chameleon, bright
red, terribly
visible—we'll boil
it in coriander.
This is the excuse,
reasonable consumption,
cast iron blackening sun.
A fetish drags itself
through skin. And then the
two headed snake on the path
writhing onward to
the place where we are
split like facts.

Copyright © 2005 Dana Curtis All rights reserved
from Pyromythology
Finishing Line Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission