A wrongful carry.

The bookman pedals his sales of thick brown bindings.
His wheels spin wildly as a demon
and yet, you stare in perplexion, craving his wares.
Like oil, you spill money from your hands and pockets and black left shoe.
He smiles wetly and with a certain reasoned distance.
Thick sausage fingers deposit the black on white typescript
with an air of finality. Yours, sincerely.
Secrets for an fetus in the bottle of your body,
drinking cloudy juice of a grapefruit, biting sourly to sustain.

Like gold and water in a desert of clear snake bindings
this blood let from an author's green blue veins like pure and sparkling wine.
A story of winding spindly words on mold smelling papers:
castles, men with long sharp noses, Aryan eyes and hair, horned white horses.

A fine thin line of red tracing a crack in the grey plaster walls.
Steely shinging screws and nails poke their heads like turtles from folding skin necks.
The beet juice purple red insists to fall like prayer from a prophet's lips--
slowly, surely, temptest wet.
A river joining tributaries of gushing white waters, turning the woman's trouble
over and over like its smooth bedding stones.
A bud of terrible something to contrast the white on red typescript.
Incrypted messages.  Not from book or letter or verse of poet delight.

A rush of knowing and denial and losing baby toes.  Dread of death, its awful scent floating on the air as freshly baked bread.
An oven burst with poisoned gas, an ass's kick to the bloated belly housing grapefruit drinking babe.