Thursday, March 22, 2007


Botany's a cult (pass it on). Remunerative
faultlines prosper in the hills of clay.
Bequeathing hay on stamina may mean the dowry's lost.
A customary breath mark leaves the piece
a little fraught with code.
Maybe we will ride into the hills,
and speak our dueling styles. Or rage
about duality held in the files.
My only choice of yesteryear
was to betray a self considered true.
That self was surely you.

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