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Richard Tayson: Vigil

May 20, 2011 by PBQ

Your face our face now
attached to sticks
held high as a mayor’s face
a president’s.

(You are not dead–we walk
through a sea of your faces)

Finally the pushing finally cop cars.

Your face in front of me
goes down and is torn
to shreds the way animals
tear living flesh and eat, eat.

Blonde faces crushed underfoot.
Death horses and their riders.

Good as any gun butt.
Good as any pistol-whipped.

Love, we are the species of love.

Filed Under: Contributors 63, Issue 63, Poetry, Poetry 63 Tagged With: Contributors 63, Poetry, Poetry 63, Richard Tayson

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