Monday, November 04, 2013


Turning the stars with spatula arms
skies spill stars and mosquitoes

thunder like sprays of flowers
like dead deer, typewriters

hinting like a children's book
foretelling surprises, defeats.

Darkness is the little treat
lying in the womb

I wonder what it means
to share: I'm here

Yet know it means
something to you

in the slow interior
of your mood

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