alfie lee writing


the source of denial

through throat
where tang stirs,
head waters

past milked wash, arch
roots, bitter
tannin, the dead leaves

wicked off your crown, down
your back, tugging
your chest like a heart at

tack. you make
once more of the source,
you think, of it

all. if it still exists.
if it ever did. hard, dry,
high, where be

hooves passage
with out ways to survive
wasting for a taste.


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