The Errors

A Poem

There never was any question of a reduced sentence — a reductive one, maybe — here become all mistakes made, choke on your Dionysian vomit, the spectacular something alien and xenophobic all by itself, insetting the domination of twisting features, the arrogant anger coupled by interrogation — whose house is this — the kind of thing that makes you feel your heart is having a hole whipped into it, a satisfaction in pain, a pained…