Poem #4 of 30

After the Kiss, or,  The Just Vengeance of Heaven Exemplify’d 1730 in Memorial West Wing 2013

The walls are white.
The sheets are white.
The liquid that enters
his hand to make its course
through what is left of his body
is clean as clear defines itself.

In the meantime
his body quietly pollutes itself;
its violence an unfinished blink
delivered in suspension
& with nary a word though his lips
make that promise.

This body pollutes itself
and no cleansing
will serve.

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