A bulls-eye squeezed from every face,
Writhing gaily as crime’s disgrace,
Shucked pilgrims improve a tree.
Their antecedent ash has swallowed me.
Tho the smells I warrant collect in a child
Fresh on the swing, a prayer from the pile,
Families ripening under the crown,
My wife shut the kitchen inside her gown.
Pulling vertebrae, Edward, I count
Years tucked in my head, a pious amount.
Gavel babies feed the accumulating weight
Upon carts clacking a measureless gait.
The rope insists we all must be
Widowed by complacency.
Forgive God, too; He profits from His trade.
I am the humble marmoset for killing slaves.
Sean Kilpatrick is published in Boston Review, Hobart, Columbia Poetry Review, Evergreen Review, New York Tyrant, Fence, kill author and The Collagist. fuckscapes (Blue Square Press) and Anatomy Courses (Lazy Fascist Press), a collaborative novel with Blake Butler are both currently available. He blogs here.