VINCENT
M Sarki
There is a black
rock wedged
in my fishing hole.
And a tidy smell
I bought instead
of stamps.
We all stand up.
Everybody gets
sucked in.
Infidels our
only profligacy.
The course of
two humbled lives.
But only the dead
can be heard
screaming on
about the fog
of these drips.
These flowered
harryings. His sickly
stum in her hair.