Last Echo

a vulture pries apart the last echo
from windowsill glistening a piece of gold to the sky

cars rush toward the ceremony in which our metallic-fingers lift dirt
computer-sun splits from under moist tongues;

a roof yanked from an axon myelin sheath blinking in the shape of a nervous, dying neighborhood, puss
fills small earthly bulbous,
becomes the doorknob we use to soak aside complaints;

drive a vocabulary by open utility, slick with
gasoline bus or car seat necessity, sweat,
animals missing from backyard, traits of ghostly architecture
follow footprints of mythic forests, smoke
rises from sleep
in the bristle of a broom closet
nestled beside a decapitation

of tomorrow, blanketed
in questions billowing with anger, swept
aside by mutilated saliva

as it drips over our eyes
blurring smooth lashes hairline fractures glitchy screen meaning for being alive

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