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Click herenumbered pieces,
like a paint-by-number in three dimensions.
like cutting down a tree
and counting the rings,
cardboard box of photographs serves
them same purpose.
attic,
a cobwebbed existence,
fat black rubies centered in each one.
knobby-kneed hide-and-seek memory.
magic trick,
watch everything disappear.
(d)evolved and
scorched, dusty floorboards
reek like 1983,
there are probably even
Thundercats, here,
to support that conclusion.
counting every patch in the roof,
the thick smell of tar
still permeating everything
nearby,
a hundred thousand minutes away.
chemically combining with skin,
this smell will never
come off.
box up these memories,
or cremate them?
U-Haul is at least fifty dollars,
boxes of matches are free.
them same purpose.
the?
I hear music to this, that may or may not be a problem, it would be a great song. There are things which gravititate to cliche', great for songs, not for great poetry. I love these lines:
box up these memories,
or cremate them?
U-Haul is at least fifty dollars,
boxes of matches are free.
These are good, but end it, great poetry is open ended, ends with a question.
I like it, I'm just trying to offer a consideration for your future writing.