Thread: Untitled #187

There's a man with puppets.
He makes them from clay
and smashes them
when he finishes painting them
into the people of his life.

He tastes his wife
and thinks of the number of men
who have been there before.

Thursday afternoon, he watches her
sorting through the mail.

The grating cartwheel of his heart
snowballs into a coronary.

With each brush stroke,
he paints us all.

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