"And all the windy clamor of the daws
About her hollow turret..."
--Tennyson
exile's tracery worn
red fiestaware complainant
exhale from the coffeemaker
that lonely saxophonist
there are fires burning
out of control
as humans wheel in helicopters
the toaster has its own complaint
the cicadas theirs
somewhere in a large room
there's a small man bent
over his smartphone
with vengeance in his heart
The Haunting Paintings of Ken Currie.
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