Wednesday, June 20, 2012

What I tell you is a secret.

How sincere are the gladdest fingertips!
Most refrain, 

--or never feather,
Or never are.

But pointing at the scribble tails of salamanders in the soil,
Or enlisted by the cupholds of (so much) music

The initiative to look weakens.

Take this glance of darkness:
It stretches past the orange morning

And the humor.

And the gallows of smoke that get produced:

And the purview of that smoke we inhale,
And the purview of secrecy.

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