“the Delaware stare,”
the preacher declared,
tracing his tendrils across
some solemn psalms,
and the man tremored.
those little vines, they snapped
across that cheek, over to two
disconnected eyes, and they
pressed.
the lids shut, ma.
something holy, an amen or two,
and the preacher departs,
bound for 4201, code red.
the eyes never turn back on.
the silence won’t stop.
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