Sunday, June 28, 2009
DUBIOUS CLOAKS…
we wear, afraid our parents
will singe us. Bruised totems
stored beneath the skin’s surface.
The blood will rise, but who
will stand, and who will sit down?
There are tunnels that lead
to the end of your throat,
but it’s dark, and I’m afraid
to take them. I’m all for
full disclosure. You first…
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LONG PLAYING The just-past-full moon parsed and dissected by black tree branches and a screen window open to a taut Spring chill on t...
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