Syringe Poem by Dylan KD.
Syringe
Hunting in the hall of numbers
teething like a drill
shapes fill up the silent gesture
and spill out like the moth's dream.
The rifle sings like Jupiter
with petals at his feet
swaying on electric vines
while knotting ancient eyelids.
Asleep within a vein
or drunk in arteries
this impulse folds me in
now comatose in domes.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Topic(s) of this poem: hunting,numbers
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8/28/2026 11:52:57 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
