kapitol

mired in youth structures of iron converged in churches vine
in vine phonebooths each thing i don’t recall

finds me in depths after the fire we walked up the hotel steps
worst of all i was twelve my own hell ensnared by ambivalence

i would have written this a long ago if not for the placebo
of ego

keyhole

there’s little intimacy in my family tree the feral tug of
what’s not there white buildings high ceilings i was bare
the attendant washed me then recited prayers water sloshed
in a pink tub my sudsy hair my spirit was frail no one else
was there i was seen stealing food from the market everything
was spare

J.L. Moultrie is a Detroiter and multi-genre writer who communicates his craft through words. He hasn’t been the same since encountering Hart Crane, James Baldwin & Patti Smith. He considers himself a modern, abstract imagist.