(no subject)

[proximoception]

The dead mothers went to the low places there
And crowded together and stomped themselves holes
With their spikey black shoes and each rested her chin
On the chin of her hole and their hair was one hair
And it rained on that hair so the seas would begin
The mothers are mum in their vertical beds
(Clicking their domino labyrinth heads)
Shoeing the lights of the boats of our souls