Author Information
Claw at His Polish
A man who has the wherewithal to claim and carve his whispers
into fetid, threaded string to sew into his image
is sure to have a boundless wave of majesty and luster
that sits, fermenting, just beneath, and just beyond your grasping.
But say you'd find the time to scratch and peel away the varnish;
digging nails into the rim and prying at his lid?
Come discovered, hidden well, and for reasons well and good:
the barrel's bottom's nothing more than a shallow pool of shit.
