local minimum III

picking at bones

to nail fleshy

organ on an        advertisement

(he played it

         so well)

look at her

shredding

words on the

corner of his

silence

waiting for the ghosts to fall

on their heads

and turn into           men

an opaque voice leaps from his tombstone

                        it was like he was haunted or something

Local minimum II

I roll in this cusp

a line sprouts from my

forehead      

dawdling in thecup of a

           

parabola

a ball moaning back and forth and

back and forth in

graveyards sprung from

his hard hard hand

the buildings swallow

chew carefully to

remind you

silence peers back

curiously  

tilts his head

and you start to wonder

                                    if you’ve become

[        ]

it was like she was haunted or something