valette, adolphe
Adolphe Valette

I invade your gangways,
your exhalations spiraling
like the plumes of a revenant’s cape.
Obstreperous parades foul the streets.
Buildings tangled together
in a sooty, deafening grave.

I dream of impurities
of hexes woven into a tapestry
of undulating feathers.
The rain scrambles underfoot.
My eyes pouring, downcast,
a single heart galloping
behind pitiless windows.

This made up world,
an apocalypse, grim
and force-less. If not for hunger
we’d feel nothing at all.
We are not meant to be whole
for on that day nothing else
would be capable of getting in.
A full man must surely be dead.

low on mojo


6 thoughts on “Mag 304

  1. A full man is only dead if he neglects to take pleasure in the moments of eating that led up to feeling full. And perhaps if it’s too easy to forget those momentary pleasures while we’re making our way through the daily grind. Good thing we have your poetry. 🙂

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