The Sons of Laocoon

Please, good 
hatred, 
I crave your amnesty’s 
desire.

I live 
without rent due 
anytime this month - 
seek me.
 
On occasion, 
the one 
she missed;
less often
each day. 

Who taught her those 
things, yes, 
you like. 
Much obliged. 

Her sculpture, an
idle thing to
revere - 
an idea

molded to 
life
scrape by
harrowing scrape.

Her best image,
a stampede alight, oh
alright.

Cherish her, I
could not.
Keep her, 
you could not.
Try.