A man cannot talk with his ex
about the pain of divorce,
and he cannot talk to his new wife.
Friends and family all have their interests
more closely at hand than his.
And so a man is left to talk with the earth,
and she is a bitch.
She will pretend to listen, bend like a willow,
and then use him for her own needs,
as a ripe fruit for mold and parasites,
as a bee for the black pollen of senescence,
a clay tablet for her to knife
cuneiform characters of her dominion.
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