a bruise under my thumbnail
is an orbit for a tachistoscope real
to run on to run around on
and then there is what
to do about these clouds
ketchup smeared sneezes
in the great plaza's
grass carpet
abominable hysteretics washing
along perimeterilly and unaware
of my spinning
bruise under my thumbnail
put there by memories'
buttonless twig
, a lost code in inconsistent
lighting or a sparkling blotch of
raw dirt.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment