gut

ter







is the end of something a form of

genius




transoming its name





against bitter winters




of the body




its pain of its pain that
cannot be








spoken






as what's there to say





about some body


awkwardly



skewed on the be










d






its back misplaced dead num































b











ovoid




a grifter is not nay

a drifter in your rule





























punished as I am by
these women
whose sorrow's unkempt
to punish me
all their lives
hurt




harm blame





hinder the heart of one


whose spirit is great

who's great


who's been killed






so



it weaves











the counting days





to that god

I say no






keep it











knit your death stockings sister

you bore me

bore right into me with your deaths