Copy Children Poem by Leslie Philibert

As if a train cut me in half;
And as I bleed the back of my head moves
Into my sight; God the bully

Has punished me with these copies.
A tin voice I thought Ì´d buried.
Short trousers. Teeth of a kite.

And an inside as creaky as an old mill.
A stairway too tight at the end,
Barrels to be filled, cold with echoes.

I am trapped in a paper bag
Full of birds, soft and sick-warm
Falling on cracked pavements.

It often rains in early evening.
The night sucks you out.
You wander and seek others.