The Concierge.


And, then, a rush of stranger souls.
And, one, a poet
I read him.
And feel my atomic structure reassigning

All my particles disengage
making escape
through the nearest exit
closest to my heart
Fairy dust
from my nipples

Until I am without form
in the void.

.

.

© Ruth Ann Scanzillo

11/11/14 — all rights reserved. Thanks.

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