Grave of the Left Hand

is a hole in August
carved out of the unforeseeable future
in which I will dump gladly, hopefully, ecstasy
because they were reserved in the beginning
for the right that will use them up,
is using them now, and will leave them spent,
itself all crooked and stunned
on the last day.

And what of the rogue left, the sinistral usurper
not content to waste away in disuse?
It shoulders the mantle of evil heartily
and claws simple, declarative love letters
in its twisted grip, throws dirt in the hole
of August, drags adverbs by their ys into a cave
deep in brute March where it broods
and makes a heaven of its own.

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