Thursday, September 12, 2013


We'll have to tell all our small, silly jokes
to save us one final time and well.

And fight the sour syllables of silence
friends at the bottom of the well.

Smile--like thoughts gods had briefly
fall on our knees, count seasons.

The road spreads fluorescent
of course, we repeat in patient panic

reasons fistful by fistful;
thoughts dazzling out of our heads.

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