of someone faintly resembling her
or the mere mention
of her name in passing
between two passing strangers
(maybe a seeing-eye-dog
and a black bird perched
on a parking meter,
this time)
and a thin, murder-red line of liquid fire
meanders its way, languidly,
down the spiny contour
of this bizarre,
conceptual
installation piece
I call my soul,
pooling, slowly,
in the stone bowl
of my belly, where, it will
bubble and hiss and sulk
long into the night.
-Jason Ryberg, 2004
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