Mortification

 

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Fuck death, and
the isolation of this little room,
the issue or content of the womb
human flesh, which
burns out like a slow coal


Or gathering icicle
in foreknowledge of the sun,
under which I am the only one:
who disappears, abandoned by
and abandoning everything

©Dean Baker

from OUR GEOGRAPHIES, POEMS SELECTED VOL.2, 126 pages

e-book https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01M7QWWFO    $2.57

paperback https://www.amazon.com/Our-Geographies-Poems-1970-1980-2/dp/1502915596  $2.57

  https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM/

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