Sunday, July 3, 2011

I must encourage us.

What a sound you leave--it's almost nothing,
like congruent dashes in rainy mud

Or pawed ink--kissing wet paper,
Running from the volume language.

What a sound you--You, pull from your slop
Your sleeve.

The land, indeed, is better hid--

Graffitied. The rain is a common excuse for
It's charming slashes--

And your tongue--reticent as it is,
commands shivering asses.

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