The Bookshop Sessions #4

The butcher carves out half a heart

Placing the martyr down it leaves scars on the table

In a race for still again, he picks up a blade of lightning

And cuts

Finishing his work, with a dusty scalp

He bows 

Pulls a bent cigarette from his sock

and returns to the old bench 

Cleaver in one hand, scouring moments for space

Monday breathes in the haunting wind 

When nothing could speak,

The empty merchant market said, 

in a coiling upward gaze; 

Dancing reparations

He smokes half the handle

The drain swallows the rest

one last time, with real eyes 

a fox stares back