St. Peter’s Peter

“Why is it so quiet
what are they hiding?”
—Sylvia Plath, Berk-Plage

This is the graveyard—
The final last-call Abeyance

How the moon’s poultices—
Draw out my poisoned thoughts

Neon-colored bloody guts—
Scooped like sherbet in the dirt

I bury them both down deep—
And I do it smilingly smug

The damp night is silent—
It stretches full of skunk stink

Is it any fucking wonder—
They’re both buried down there?

A pair of rotting lozenges—
Amidst worms and long kisses?

But St. Peter knows, my dear—
The horrible awful truth

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