Bundle-of-lint, get back into your cubbyhole,
into your linen drawer, your kettle of fish heads.
To the seeping wound from whence thou came.
get back down into your hole of holes.
Return to the smirking mouth of the salamander.
To the bottom of your olive jar.
To the glove compartment of a burning sedan.
exit with the staged plays walk-on mob.
Back to your shallow-dug grave in the woods.
Return to your shoebox hidden under the bed.
To your gouged hill scarred with aircraft debris.
Go, and never trouble this existence again.
And may your shadow never cross anothers.
Return to Archive
FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 43 | Spring 2014