where the apple core was thrown

from space

with time

the world is breathless

like a punch

in the gut

where there is pain daily

and the undigested chunks

of land bruise

against a bleeding sun

and disappearing clouds

*

it is done

they are dead

is it enough yet

or should i stop too

*

it is true that among

hungry savage

dogs snarling

in the junkyard

like cynics

carving their name

in piss but they cannot spell

i have found god

in the reverse

doing as they do

doing it done

making more with scraps

of ribs and flesh and

the dust that surrounds

their breath

escaping into the cold

onto their warm panting piss

birthing nothing

yet expecting to mark

the world in bounds