Tuesday, September 29, 2009

The desperation with which they built a fire.

Their frigid hands converging,
Their hunting talent, screaming, converging,
Their lack of sunlight converging,
What am I forgetting?

Oh right, the amnesty disarticulated
And so naturally cold--
I mean cold by natural dictation
Despite your wanting it.

I could be selfish and invoke the memory of your frigid hands,

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