Or rather, Butchering a Sonnet Until it Resembles Shit
Waking up to sounds outside the apart-
ment: car horns, polish folk, one morning lark,
men rehabbing the outside of the old
hotel I live in, kids shivering cold,
black shoes mad at black top, bike spokes and cell-
phones. I hear the harbor waves moan, I smell
the park when the lake winds flutter southwest
critters move inside and become house pets.
Sat right on the outskirts of the city.
But we uprooted the bleached bones and took
them to a furnace. We turned them to soot
"Live. Die slow,"
"Your remains will not last a century."